


Mirror Images

by Notabluemaia



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Friendship/Love, Gap Filler, Healing, Illustrations, M/M, Mirrors, Rivendell, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-07
Updated: 2013-08-07
Packaged: 2017-12-22 17:52:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 28,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/916252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Notabluemaia/pseuds/Notabluemaia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three days in Rivendell, as Frodo lies wounded by Morgul blade, and Sam 'never leaves his side'. Reflections of mortal danger and death-defying love. (PG13-NC17 in later chapters, illustrated)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rivendell

  


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* * *

  
  
_…Looking in a mirror he was startled to see a much thinner reflection of himself than he remembered: it looked remarkably like the young nephew of Bilbo who used to go tramping with his uncle in the Shire; but the eyes looked out at him thoughtfully._  
  
‘Yes, you have seen a thing or two since you last peeped out of a looking-glass,’ he said to his reflection. ‘But now for a merry meeting!’ He stretched out his arms and whistled a tune.  
  
At that moment there was a knock on the door, and Sam came in. He ran to Frodo and took his left hand, awkwardly and shyly. He stroked it gently and then he blushed and turned hastily away.  
  
Excerpt from "Many Meetings", from _The Fellowship of the Ring_ , by J.R.R.Tolkien.  
  
  


* * *

  
  


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Sam threw down his torch and staggered to the water’s edge, only to be pulled back by Strider’s firm hand on his shoulder. If the truth be known, he also feared that the swollen, raging flood might sweep him away in its equine turbulence of black horses, riders, and those ethereal silvered stallions. Of them all, Glorfindel would be the first to be able to pass, would be the first to reach the opposite bank and the crumpled figure, lying too still beneath the magnificent horse from which he had slipped just moments before. Strider might be able to make it across soon, but Sam and Frodo’s kin must bear the wait until the flood receded, Sam held back on one side, heartbroken, his Master holding forth on the other, fallen, broken…

  
Sam could only stand and watch, arms folded tightly across his chest, as Glorfindel knelt, gently lifted, and gathered the small figure to his chest, calling back words of hope and life... There was hope in their rapid departure astride the great horse, hope in their desperate race to Rivendell, but it felt like desolation to see them disappear into the woods beyond the receding waters.

  
After a time, Strider was able to aid the hobbits’ safe passage across the ford, and they resumed their straggling trek in the wake of pain, suffering, and uncertainty. Fatigue and worry made it impossible to appreciate the increasing magnificence of the verdant pines and towering cliffs and tumbling waterfalls as they climbed into the high valleys approaching Rivendell. Single-minded concern for the fragile life borne swiftly ahead prevented them from experiencing relief when the riders sent back from Rivendell swept them up and rushed them onward.

  
To what? The graceful structures of Rivendell spilled down the cliff high above river and valley, arched walls opened before them, terraces and trees rose above. Strider was welcomed as one long known to this place, and after brief, warm words of reassurance, was hastened elsewhere. Tall figures with murmuring voices beckoned the hobbits within, and with the gracious hospitality of their elven kind, urged them to rooms near those to which their companion had been taken.

  
There they were halted by the exigency of the moment. Life remained, however tenuously; they rejoiced to learn that Frodo still lived. But the balance was so uncertain that all the healing arts of a great and ancient race were desperately required to restrain the darkness from that one small body. Sam, Merry, and Pippin were left to worry and wait, hoping Frodo’s hold on life would soon be strong enough that they might see him. Food, drink, and opportunity to bathe and rest were offered and accepted by hobbits sensible enough to know that the only aid they could give now was to ensure their own strength and availability for whatever was to come.

  
Time passed, interminable and unmeasured. Silent, urgent activity bypassed Sam, tucked into a large chair as close to the chamber door as possible. The solemn elves passing through that door had been unable to offer reassurance, and continued quickly on whatever errands such strange injury might require. He knew only that every moment was an eternity, and every voice failed to be the one he longed to hear. The serenity of the place helped him compose himself to bear the interminable waiting, and when he looked over to Merry and Pippin, he saw that the stillness had lulled them, too. They had finally relaxed into exhausted slumber, curled together on a long bench on the balcony, wrapped in the music of the fountains below.

  
Sam stared, glazed, through the stone arches, across the ravine, at the cliffs opposite this room. Barren and bleak they were to his mind and mood: too big and too sharp and too steep… far too much. Dizziness, almost as if he himself clung across the way, came over him; he slumped in the chair, bowed his head to his knees, and gave in to his grief.

  
Some time later, the tall door beside him swung smoothly open. The solemn elves passing through that door had been unable to offer any reassurance, and continued quickly on whatever errands such strange injury might require. Sam now dreaded the door opening on news he could not bear to hear, though he could scarcely hope for better. His dear Master had begun to wither and fade after the initial agony on the Morgul blade… Only that last stand, his defiant cry at the ford, _‘…neither the Ring nor me…’_ gave Sam any hope. If there was that kind of resistance still left… oh, would that it had not all been consumed, and that somehow enough remained to bring him back!

  
“Samwise.”

  
Sam looked up with a start, raising his tear-streaked face to a gentle hand laid upon his shoulder. “Mr. Gandalf, sir!”

  
He was kneeling by the chair in front of Sam, his eyes filled with a profound sadness. “Samwise, I am so sorry…” and Sam’s breath caught and his face blanched, and the world spun.

  
“No, Sam, not that… Frodo yet lives…” Gandalf rushed to reassure his misapprehension, steadying him. “But, my dear hobbit, I regret that I could not be there for him, and for you…”

  
Sam’s grief turned to overpowering rage that this might have been prevented, and he lashed out with the most cutting words he could muster.

  
“He _trusted_ you! He trusted you, sir, and you weren’t there for him, and you can’t know how he’s suffered, and now he’s in there… now he’s likely going to…” Sam sobbed and threw himself into Gandalf’s arms, forgiving him and trusting him, just as he knew Frodo himself would, if he could. And for a time, Sam and the great wizard shared their heartache for this hobbit they both loved.

  
“I am so very sorry, Samwise…” Gandalf patted Sam’s back and held him a moment longer, before continuing, “And sorry, as well, that you have been kept from Frodo’s side. But Frodo has been made comfortable, for awhile…” Sam was immediately alert; this was better news than he had feared, and he looked hopefully at Gandalf. “No, he is not yet healed; his injury is difficult… and healing must be attempted again, after he rests. But, you may see him now…”

  
“Oh, thank you, sir!” Sam slid from his chair, gave Gandalf a quick hug, and started for the door. Gandalf held it open, and ushered him through.

 

* * *

  
The phrase _‘…neither the Ring nor me…’_ is quoted from “The Flight to the Ford” from _The Fellowship of the Ring_ by J.R.R. Tolkien.  
  
  
  



	2. Mirror

  


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The bustle in the spacious room beyond whirled in confusion to Sam’s eyes. Graceful, silent elves glided around the room, gathering curved blown-glass decanters and crystal vials onto silver trays, seemingly in preparation to leave. The size and grandeur of the room disoriented Sam and he struggled to get his bearings, standing still in the midst of the elves’ movements. There were tapering pillars and carved statues, pillowed benches and delicate tables. Filmy fabrics wafted across the open balcony on the far side of the room, somehow preventing the chamber’s warmth from leaching out into the autumn chill. And over there, near the balcony, was a huge dais… could that be the bed? It must be. But, where was Frodo?   
  
Ah, there! As Sam adjusted to the confusingly large scale of the room, he finally glimpsed the small form laid out on the enormous bed, almost hidden from view by the elves working over him. Lord Elrond, a commanding presence, clearly in charge, sat on the bed next to Frodo, laying skilled hands upon the body spread before him. Sam’s legs were leaden and his mouth dry with fear and longing as he made his way through the departing elves.   
  
Across from the bed, there was a full-length mirror in a delicate carved frame. As Sam came closer, he realised that the mirror was angled just so that in its reflection, he could see Frodo for the first time since the ford. He was unclothed now, covered only by a silken strip draped over his hips, so soft and delicate that it lingered over hipbones and every curve of belly and thigh. Dark, tangled curls etched stark black calligraphy on the white pillow. His face was still as death, eyes closed, lashes brushing black over bruised shadows, skin as pale and thin and stretched as gossamer; a silver chain glinted across his white throat.   
  
Sam’s chest tightened. Frodo: dearest master, mentor, taleteller, friend… Sam had always loved him for his humour, wisdom, kindness… and lately, his courage. But never, ever, had Sam’s heart broken so, nor had he loved Frodo more, than for his utter vulnerability now. Seeing him wounded and in agony after Weathertop, suffering and fading on the long journey to the ford… none of that compared to the pain of seeing that strong and fragile body limp, empty of the bright spirit Sam so loved.   
  
He did not take his eyes from Frodo’s reflection until he came around the foot of the bed and could see him for himself. He leaned across the bed and gently laid his hand on Frodo’s ankle, but he was afraid to touch any further, for fear of unbalancing whatever tenuous hold kept Frodo here. He looked to the Lord Elrond for guidance, waiting anxiously until, at last, he lifted graceful hands from Frodo’s body, and turned to address Sam.   
  
“Samwise Gamgee, do not fear to be here with your Master…”   
  
It was only because of his very deepest fears that Sam indignantly interrupted the elf lord. “Sir, it’s not that I’m afraid to be here with him! I would never be afraid to be with Mr. Frodo; why, there’s nowhere else I’d _want_ to be. My only _fear_ is of causing him any more hurt.”   
  
Lord Elrond sighed, and looked more closely at this most devoted of servants: here was a glimmer of Gandalf’s reason for choosing Samwise for Frodo’s comfort during this stolen interlude, before deeper and more painful healing could be attempted. He answered Sam’s concerns with directness.   
  
“Frodo’s hurts are yet with him, but set your mind at ease: you cannot make them worse. Frodo requires respite, until we try again to undo this evil that has been done to him. Our arts have given him peace, for a while. Your familiar presence may soothe him and help him rest more easily… until it is time.”   
  
Sam did not dare ask what time was to come; it was enough to be here for now. He turned back to Frodo, and did not notice when all others left them alone in the room.

***

 


	3. Interlude

  


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_I should have thought to ask… Why didn’t I? How can I help? Can I touch him? Or perhaps even wake him?_ Sam hardly knew what to do, and found himself awed by the gravity of Frodo’s condition. _At least that Lord Elrond said there’s naught I can do to harm him…_ he reflected bitterly. That’s been well and truly done already.   
  
Sam thought to kneel beside the bed, but it was too high, and Frodo was lying too far from the edge, towards the middle, for Sam to be able to easily reach him. However, there was more than enough room on the large bed, so he cautiously climbed up and across an expanse of elegant bedclothes to sit at Frodo’s feet. He gently patted his shin and ankle, and ran his fingers through the springy, washed curls on his foot, glad to feel that it was no longer the icy cold he had so often touched as he walked alongside Frodo, clinging in a daze astride Bill the pony, on their long road to Rivendell.  
  
From where he sat, Sam could see himself and Frodo reflected in the mirror. He was perched awkwardly, obviously tense; the only fluid part of him was his hand caressing Frodo’s foot and ankle. Sam felt an absurd relief that he had bathed; he could not have borne the stains of travel to sully the white fragility lying so still before him. Frodo’s fair face and limbs lay sunken in the sea of deep, downy pillows and bedding, themselves the whitest of white. The only colours floating amidst the pallor were the darkest brown of his hair and brows and lashes, the rose-brown of parted lips and flat nipples, and the creamy flow of the silk strip that washed over pale loins and the darker shadows below.   
  
Sam bit his lip, and closed his eyes to the mirror’s pallid vision to see more clearly the colourful image in his heart. Frodo was as vibrant as anyone he had ever known: the bluest eyes, sparkling with intelligence; cheeks flushed pink with excitement; inky chestnut hair glinting auburn in the sun; the jewel colours of a richly bound tome bouncing back onto his slim hands; the peach ripple of subtle muscle built by long rambles… Sam moaned with pain and frustration that such vivacity could come to this, and that there was nothing he could do. Before, there had always been something he could find to do for his Mr. Frodo, but it was not planting his garden, nor taking care of his hearth and home, nor even sharing his love for the old tales that could help him now.   
  
Sam opened his eyes to look again at Frodo’s wounded frailty, and was suddenly struck by the incongruity of all that whiteness. Why was the wound, that infernal wound, not a livid blotch across his pale breast? Sam had seen many unfortunate injuries from falls and faulty use of sharp implements -- they were red and raw and bandaged. Sam realised that, in his horrible imaginings, he had anxiously thought of Frodo washed with his own blood as the elves laboured to save him; he was not, nor was there any sign that he had been: no coppery smell, no smear on flesh or fabric.   
  
And while that was a great relief, it was also unexpected, and Sam wondered about this strange injury. He moved up on the middle of the bed for closer inspection, to sit cross-legged at Frodo’s left side. The wound on Frodo’s shoulder was not covered. It was not large. It was not like any Sam had ever seen. It was a mere jagged white puckering, like a fading scar, but that it seemed a thin white mist coiled above it, sometimes obscuring the pale flesh below. That haziness disturbed Sam far more than would have the tragic but prosaic signs of lifeblood, and he swept the mist away with his hand, feeling that hand chilled to the bone as it passed through it. And, oh, that was alarming enough that he must feel whether Frodo’s flesh had been chilled by the strange mist, and he placed his rough palm on Frodo’s breast, near enough to the wound that he could feel its iciness radiating out along the bone below.   
  
“Oh, Mr. Frodo!” Sam sighed, looking to the still face; Frodo’s lips were relaxed and parted, lashes stark against cheekbones made prominent by suffering. However, he did not appear to be in pain, now, only peacefully asleep. Perhaps the Lord Elrond had been able to truly bestow some relief upon him, at least until whatever remained undone would be done? And, perhaps, if he were simply sleeping, he could be waked?   
  
Cautiously, so that he would not risk jarring Frodo, Sam shifted on the bed, stretching out alongside that he might speak and touch more readily. He leaned up on his right elbow, and tentatively rested his hand again on Frodo’s softly falling and rising chest. He hesitated, looking closely for some sign in Frodo’s familiar features. _Should I disturb this sweet sleep? If they just wanted him to sleep, then what comfort am I? Oh, to hear his voice…and to tell him, after all this, while there’s time… What, Samwise, what would you say? Only what I should have said before… only the truth…_  
  
Sam made his decision. _Maybe just see if he wakes easy… and if not, hold him close…_ He stroked up from Frodo’s chest across his collarbone to his chin, cupped the strong jaw in his left hand, and turned the dear face towards him. He spoke softly, and with all the love and tenderness he felt.   
  
“Mr. Frodo, you’re safe now, where they can help you. Won’t you please wake up, sir?” And, wasn’t there the slightest quirk of brow, perhaps even a slightly deeper intake of breath? Encouraged, Sam spoke with more urgency, as though Frodo were late for an appointment. “Mr. Frodo, it’s time to wake up now!”   
  
There was a definite response to that: Frodo frowned, and turned his head away, against Sam’s gentle hold on his jaw. Elated by this promising sign, Sam pressed right next to Frodo, reached across his body, and grasped his unhurt shoulder to very gently shake it. He called again, more firmly, and poured the joy and hope he was feeling into the fond, assertive tone he had often used, when there really was no more time for a drowsing Frodo to resist his morning call.   
  
“Mr. Frodo, sir, you really _must_ wake now!” And with that, Sam was suddenly looking into the deepest blue eyes in the world, and an accompanying faint scowl. If Frodo was aware of the unusualness of Sam’s position on the bed beside him, his surprise did not show; the emotion he was expressing most visibly was sleepy irritation, and Sam was absolutely overjoyed to see it.   
  
“Oh, Mr. Frodo! You’re awake, sir!” Sam drew back a little, barely restraining himself from clutching Frodo to him and kissing his forehead.   
  
“I could hardly _not_ be after all that, now could I, Sam?” Frodo was still frowning, but his eyes were clear now and his voice held good humour. However, that voice had not been used for some time, and the next thing that happened was a coughing fit. Frodo tried to sit, braced by an arm and shoulder that could not possibly support him. He immediately fell back with a shocked gasp, eyes closed tightly, and face greyed with the onslaught of returning pain. With an effort, he opened his eyes, looked up at Sam, and caught his breath enough to say, “Sam, I’m thinking that I didn’t just wake at Bag End, and this isn’t just another morning, and that… those ‘dreams’… _weren’t_?”   
  
A look passed between them, acknowledging all that had happened, and Frodo moaned and closed his eyes again. With no second thought, Sam pulled him close and lightly kissed his shining curls, wrapping him in the only shelter he could give.   
After a time, Frodo pulled back and reached up to touch Sam’s face. His voice shook only a little, as he asked, “The others…?” and he sighed at Sam’s murmured reassurance. “And _you_ , Samwise?” He looked intently into Sam’s face, and Sam’s heart broke at the concern he saw there, knowing what he knew of Frodo’s own hurt.   
  
“I’m fine, sir, and you will be, too. They say you just need some rest and then they’ll be able to help some more…”   
  
Sam could not meet Frodo’s intense blue gaze, knowing his heart’s fears showed in his own eyes, and he glanced down to Frodo’s chest. Frodo, distracted, removed his hand from Sam’s face, to seek the wound amidst the overall ache. However, his hand first found a chain, lying across his breast and fallen behind his shoulder. Frowning, he noted absently, “Ah, the Ring…” and Sam felt a chill that Frodo so easily knew the location of the thing at his back. But, the slim hand continued on to lightly touch and examine the cold scar above his breast, wincing at the slight pressure of his probing fingertips. Sam watched Frodo intently; he seemed preoccupied, floating in memories that were half dreams, outside the pain and fear of the last days.   
  
After a few moments, Frodo said aloud, puzzled, “There is so much I don’t understand, Sam… I still feel a little weak, even now, and not quite clear…”   
  
Sam realised, sadly, _Oh… He doesn’t know it’s not over… and why tell him? What comfort would that be? Oh, my dear Frodo…_  
  
Frodo glanced questioningly at Sam, continuing, “We must have reached Rivendell, although I don’t remember how or when, and there must have been aid, because I… well, I’m still here…”   
  
Frodo looked around the vast room for the first time, seeing the vista beyond the balcony, the high arching ceiling, the shining decanters near the bed. Finally, he glanced at the carved mirror to his right and saw its reflection of himself and Sam, lying together in the enormous soft bed. Sam, clothed, was stretched fully along Frodo’s left side, propped on his elbow. His right arm slipped beneath and cradled Frodo’s shoulders, and his left hand rested gently on Frodo’s pale, concave belly, just above the hem of the sheer silk draping his slim hips.   
  
Sam watched with some amusement, even now, as Frodo realised his current state. A spreading blush warmed his pallor from his chest all the way to his cheeks, and, after a moment, Frodo sighed, with resignation, “Oh, my… I would have thought I’d have felt a chill…” Sam could not keep from smiling as several modest ideas occurred to Frodo in rapid, unsuccessful succession: he drew up his leg, but that made him no less bare, nor did it conceal anything revealed by the sheer cloth, nor were there covers within his reach, and it hurt too much to move much more than that…   
  
So Frodo met Sam’s calm, fond gaze reflected in the mirror, and shrugged, and returned his smile, and asked, wryly, “I suppose this is the way everyone here has made my acquaintance? Not quite how I had imagined meeting the elves, Sam!”   
  
And Sam laughed with him, grateful to share this, and to hear that dear chuckle again, and thought, _This is a spared moment outside of all time, between life and death, and it may never come again…_ He pulled Frodo back toward him, careful of his hurt shoulder, and kissed his forehead, and said, his voice rough, filled with love, “You are quite a sight, sir, and no doubt about it…” And then, with courage of his own, and all the honesty of his heart, he added, “…and a beautiful one, at that, my dear.”   
  
And in this timeless moment of utter trust, Frodo could see himself lovingly reflected in his dear Sam’s familiar hazel eyes. He was brought back to himself from the nightmare terrors of blade and wound, strengthened for what would yet come. Life sustaining heat surged through his body and blood. He could not roll over onto his injured shoulder to sling his right arm around Sam, but he could, and did, shift himself closer into the warmth of his embrace and murmur, _“Sam…”_   
  
He felt so very tired, and the pain in his chest was worsening, but he was aware that Sam’s tenderness offered him saving grace and safe haven in this moment, betwixt and between… and that it always had. He closed his eyes, and felt himself drifting into a healing sleep, at the dark edges of which swirled a frightening, chill mist, held back only by the warm circle in which he was contained. He placed his hand over Sam’s, linking scholar’s slim, deft fingers with gardener’s rough, nurturing ones.   
  
As Frodo drowsed in Sam’s arms, he felt Sam’s sturdy hand beneath his, fingertips tracing his belly soothingly, sliding down to rest more comfortably on his hip… Then Sam’s forearm brushed against silk lifted by firm heat… and froze. Sam looked down, wondering, at Frodo and then, questioning, up to his face; the bright eyes had closed, breathing had deepened, and he was already relaxing into sleep. But, Frodo’s hand, resting on his own, pressed, lightly… With all the love in him, Sam moved his own, still twined with Frodo’s, to curve tenderly over this sweet firmness revealed at Frodo’s core. He rested his head against the dark one tucked beneath his chin, and heard the faintest voice, from the very edge of sleep, sigh, “ _My Sam…_ ” as Frodo pushed upwards, ever so slightly, into Sam’s gentle grasp.   
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  



	4. Blessing

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“This peace, this calm, cannot last.” Lord Elrond spoke gravely to Gandalf and Aragorn outside Frodo’s chamber. Gandalf nodded, and motioned sombrely to Merry and Pippin to come closer; the kinsmen’s loving concern could not be denied. “Frodo is uncommonly strong to have endured so long. But the wound is not yet clean, in spite of our efforts, and his resistance fades.”   
  
Pippin protested, in alarm, “But you said he might awaken and that Samwise could comfort him!” Merry patted his arm, trying to calm him.   
  
Gandalf sighed and laid his hand on Pippin’s shoulder as Elrond responded, “That is so. Our arts provided a brief respite from fear and pain. Frodo may have been strengthened for what now lies before him. Nevertheless, the darkness will return, and soon. He hovers even now at the edge of the wraith world.”   
  
Lord Elrond hesitated; he had little comfort to offer. “It is time to seek his healing again. One of you must bring Samwise away. He will not choose to leave his Master’s side, but it would be very difficult for him to remain.” The hobbits could not know what Gandalf and Aragorn both understood: if all did not go well, Frodo would wake to torment; and the Wise could offer help in ways that Samwise might not understand.   
  
“I shall do so; I will carry Samwise out if necessary, and if I dare brave his wrath.” Aragorn smiled kindly at the hobbits.   
  
Merry rejoined, “And Pippin and I both shall go with you. I understand that it was right that Samwise be sent to him before, but we love Frodo, and would give him our blessing.”   
  
“As I have given mine…”   
  
“Bilbo!” Merry and Pippin turned, astonished, to greet the elderly hobbit. He was more aged than they remembered, though still hale; but his eyes were shadowed now with grief.   
  
“You must have sneaked right past us, a skill for which you were well known!” Merry exclaimed.   
  
Hugs were exchanged, and Bilbo said, “Yes, my dear cousins, I have slipped past several times as you rested, hoping for the news we all want. I was with him sometimes… as they worked on him…” Bilbo’s face paled at the memory. “But Frodo does not know that, nor that Gandalf is here. Our presence would raise questions for which he does not have strength to spare.” Bilbo took a deep breath. “You must kiss Frodo and bless him now, as I did earlier, for they will not allow you in again… until it is finished. And he is recovered.”   
  
The hopeful words hung resolutely in the air as each of them recalled Frodo in health and wished desperately to see him so again. After a few moments, Aragorn spoke quietly to Merry and Pippin, “It is time to go in, and perhaps Samwise will leave Frodo’s side at your urging. I shall assist only as needed.” Aragorn held open the door from the antechamber for Merry and Pippin to step inside.   
  
Their view of the room was not obscured by the bustle of elves as Samwise’s had been, but it took a moment to absorb the sheer size of it. Both Frodo and Samwise together took only a small portion of the bed centred in the room.   
  
Not wishing to wake Frodo if he slept nor disturb quiet conversation if he were awake, they padded forward as quietly as hobbits could. Pippin was first to notice the mirror. He halted, grabbed Merry’s arm, and gestured to the sight revealed by the mirror before them, burying sudden tears in Merry’s shoulder. From the room side, they had seen that Samwise and Frodo lay together, Frodo hidden on the far side of Samwise’s stockier body. However, in the reflection, Merry saw that they were enfolded together in deep slumber with Samwise’s arms wrapped securely around Frodo’s fragile, pale body. Their hands were linked tenderly, low over Frodo’s hips and the dark curls there, and it was clear that they had found comfort in the intimate embrace.   
  
There was peace in Frodo’s face such as they had not seen since happier days in The Shire. His dark brows were no longer knit with the worry and pain of the last weeks; the deep lines of tension that had run from his straight nose to the corners of his lips had smoothed; and the greyed pallor was lessened, by the faintest blush on flawless skin. Samwise, worn out by his painful vigil, finally slept, as he had not done for many restless days, his tanned face tucked into Frodo’s soft hair.   
  
Merry felt a surge of protectiveness for the vulnerability lying before him. This was not a thing to be shared with men or elves; if Samwise must be moved, then he, Merry, would protect their privacy. But he could not bear to disturb them, yet. _Give them whatever moments they may have…_ He regarded his older cousin. _Has Frodo always been so beautiful? He has always been so dear…_   
  
Merry smoothed back the tangled curls, and then, taking Pippin’s hand, together they laid their hands on Frodo’s forehead, and gave blessing to him. Merry first, and then Pippin, each leaned down to hold Frodo’s still face, and kiss the smooth brow.   
  
And then, there was a need for haste, for even as they stood there, a mist wafted across Frodo’s body. Merry waved his hand to dissipate it, then clasped his hand to his chest, startled at the bone-chilling effect. The mist seemed to rise from Frodo’s wounded shoulder, and was increasing so rapidly that already it threatened to obscure the puckered scar from their sight. The cousins exchanged a look of alarm, and Pippin said, “I’ll tell Lord Elrond of the mist. Hurry, Merry…”   
  
Merry added, “Ask Strider to carry Samwise out sleeping. I’ll take care of…” Pippin nodded, with a last concerned glance toward the entangled pair, then hurried to the door, as Merry turned to Frodo, to help him the only way he could.   
  
Merry gently lifted their intertwined hands, the golden and the fair. He placed Frodo’s lightly at his side, and rested Samwise’s on Frodo’s chest, then discreetly re-arranged the silken drape over Frodo’s slender hips. He looked about and found a softly woven blanket folded nearby, floated it over Frodo’s body, and was relieved that the mist scattered a little. He stood back to assess his protective efforts, completed just as Strider came in. Merry shuddered, and leaned down through the chill haze to give Frodo a last kiss filled with love and hope, as Strider, with a look of deepest compassion for both Frodo and Samwise, swept up the somnolent Samwise and bore him away from Frodo’s side.   
  


***

 


	5. Decision

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Left in the care of Merry and Pippin, Sam slept a dead sleep. He woke to Merry’s hand on his shoulder, and his voice, “Sam! It’s time… you’ll want to wake, Sam…” With a start, Sam sat bolt upright, glanced at his empty hands, and clutched Merry’s shoulder. He gasped, “Frodo! Where is he?”   
  
The look Sam gave Merry was filled with his fears; Pippin patted his shoulder and reassured him. “Frodo is still sleeping, Sam, and you’ve only been here a short while…” Pippin hesitated; he thought mention of the cold mist could wait until Sam had been awake a bit longer, “…and they’re getting ready to try again, without waking him for it… if they don’t have to…”   
  
Merry continued as Sam swung his feet over the side of the bed and rubbed his arm across tired eyes. “We found you asleep together…” Even through his fear for Frodo, he looked at Sam with gratitude, thinking, _Samwise Gamgee, you comforted one as dear to me as any in this world, as no one else could have done. May your love help sustain him._  
  
“Frodo was resting so peacefully… I covered him, Sam…” Merry gave Sam a very direct look. “And _then_ Strider came in to carry you out.”   
  
Sam blushed, recalling what they must have seen, concerned for Frodo’s privacy. In the next instant, he was almost overwhelmed by wrenching loss, and his arms ached for the feel of Frodo; he regretted that dear moments had slipped away unknown and unappreciated, and berated himself. _Sam, you fool! Sleeping, when you might have looked on him the longer and held him, resting so sweetly…and you should have stood watch over him! But he needs you now._ Sam took a deep breath; those treasured moments were his and Frodo’s alone, whatever might come of them, whatever might be thought, and he could only be so very glad of them.   
  
“Thank you, Mr. Merry, and Mr. Pippin, for waking me and for telling me…” He returned Merry’s look without embarrassment, with a new boldness born of protectiveness for his Frodo's every need, and realised that what he saw in Merry’s eyes was not chastisement, but, instead, deep concern.   
  
“Sam, how was he?”   
  
“He woke easy, with less pain, and he was himself again… although he didn’t know he was betwixt and between, and I didn’t have the heart to tell him. He tired… quickly…” Sam choked, remembering the way Frodo had drowsed so trustingly. “Now, sir, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go back to him.”   
  
Merry looked at Sam with astonishment; it had not occurred to him that Sam would insist on returning. “No, they said, _Gandalf_ said, we were to wait, and would be in the way, and that it wouldn’t be wise…”   
  
“Begging your pardon, Mr. Merry, but I don’t care what they said, I’m going to be with him come what may. Me being there won’t bring him any hurt, and there’s nothing that could happen to him in there that I could better bear out here. And if ever he’s needed someone as loves him, it’s now. I know it, and you do, too.”  
  
Merry knew that he was right; his heart urged the same. “Yes, Sam. I think he does need you there. Go, for all of us.” He watched Sam pad purposefully to the door, saw him pass his hand over his brow and catch his breath. His shoulders squared as he seized the handle and pulled open the heavy door to return to Frodo’s side.  


* * *


	6. Decision

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Frodo, sleeping snugly, burrowed under bright quilts on a crisp Bag End morning; Sam bustling heartily about his room, rekindling the fire to take the chill from the air. Frodo drowsy and pink with health, waking rested and refreshed at Sam’s call, eager to be about his day, glad to see Sam…

Oh, that he could wake so easy now! But, no, he’s not supposed to wake yet! Not ‘til that terrible wound is clean…

And Sam entered the chamber, chilled with a completely different cold than any brisk Shire morning, and hazed with an ominous mist whose source was not the tumbling falls outside… Frodo, focus for elven skills, centre of Sam’s world, lying so still, so pale… Sam climbed to sit on the bed at his side, and took his cold left hand.

On the bed, in the midst of it all, arms aching with tenderness for this fragile flesh laid out for elven healing… touch and scent and oils and unguents… What strange art! These elves can help him… Gandalf won’t let him… Oh, but this may be beyond the lot of them! Don’t think, Sam, just touch him, hope for him… but cold… so cold… his hand shouldn’t be this cold…

Oh, but he’s been almost this cold before, and been warmed… Frodo late from a long ramble, caught out in spring’s sudden storm gale driving stinging freezing rain… Waiting, worried…not like this, but so very worried… couldn’t go home, not knowing, and so worried. Candles flickering, kettle simmering, logs ablaze… Later and even later, and remembering another time when he’d been late and was found hurt, so hurt… Oh, the chill in his heart, the rising fear… pacing, watching, pacing, waiting…

Fear suddenly banished by relief as the green door burst open and he was there, cloak dripping on mud tracked tiles, soaked locks streaming water across icy cheeks, shaking, leaning panting against the wall, looking up… “Hello, Sam. You stayed…” and his eyes so dark and his hands so cold… but all was well, he was only chilled… cold flesh towelled dry and slim hands warmed between his own… Steaming kettle poured restoration, in teapot, then in bath… sodden clothes stripped… hot scented water and grateful sigh as numbed sense returned… smiling “Thank you, Sam! Where would I be without you?” And all was well then, and could be now…

But memory was interrupted by melodious elven voices, and words he understood: “Not yet… try again later… let him rest awhile…” Then they were leaving and the lights dimmed, and the mist had cleared… Sam lying next to Frodo, arms around him, blankets over them… finding hope, drifting…

Hold him close… all those memories… just close your eyes… elves will help him… But his hand is so cold…  
Frodo laughing, poised on a branch too high above… Summer’s heat rising from the lazy water below, steaming in damp tendrils on Sam’s forehead… Laughing with Frodo at the fun, only a little concerned… “Too warm, Sam?” And then, Frodo jumped, still laughing, suspended in thick air, lithe and curled for a huge splash all over Sam, chill of deep river water. It took forever for his dark head to bob up from the water’s depths, but then he stroked strongly to the bank, and shook cool droplets all over the blanket and Sam, teasing... “Better?” And Sam nodded, delighted by the play, as Frodo flung himself down on his belly, heedless, knocking over the empty wine bottle as Sam caught the glasses. Grabbing his book and carefully wiping off the droplets before looking up to ask if this would be the tale Sam wanted next… his eyes so warm in the summer heat… And his hands would have been warm then...

But that branch, so high… so far… what if he fell and no water breaking below, only craggy rocks, sharp rocks… so high and far… and if he fell… so high up there… broken and bleeding… hurting… the height, the heat… warm, too warm, dry rocks climbing… heat, stifling, parching, throat filled with dust… can’t swallow… no water… Oh, so thirsty! Need water! But this water too dark, too deep! Too much water, it could happen, had happened, his parents… lost under water… too much…

I’m lost, water swirling, thick, no up nor down, and can’t breathe…

Breathe… No breath…

But I am breathing… but no breath, not quiet, just none, not rasping, just not there… no soft breathing beside him… no cold slim hand transferring its chill to his own bones… Frodo?

Frodo! Where is he!

Empty rumpled sheets, empty enormous bed, and cold light sparked off sharp crystal decanters. Casting off covers and sleep… staggering as feet sought balance on warm tiles, caught up in arms, and a voice, Aragorn’s, soothing, “Be at peace, Sam…” Sagging onto the side of the bed, clutching Aragorn’s arm, seeking stability from his words. “Frodo rested, as you did… They have taken him to bathe in hot springs, trying to warm him. It will be a while. Sam, you must eat… your strength…”

Too many words… Eat? Would that help Frodo’s failing strength? Maybe so…be strong, Sam… he needs you…

A blur of words exchanged and cousins’ caring… “Here, Sam, come on, Sam, you must eat…”

Cloth covered tray, fruit and bread, clear water soothing… this might help… strength regained might be strength to share...

Strong, for Frodo… strong, like Frodo… helping… warm hand reaching down, and nimble body braced… “Here, Sam! Come on, Sam! You must see… it’s worth it!” Firmly grasping Sam’s sweaty hand for hoist and scramble up the last steepness to stand beside his agile Master. Seeing Frodo first, his hand lifted, shielding eyes like the sky against brightness full in his face, overlooking rolling hills, fields filled with harvest’s haystacks, bronzed autumn glades, and a silvery road curling, fading into pinks and purples and sunset’s golden blaze… Every bit of the sight worth it… hanging on to that memory, the light in his face, that strong warm hand… Oh, Frodo, hang on…

Hanging onto swaying pony… flinch at every hill and stumble… ravaged days… bleak night watches, holding Frodo against the aching chill that rose within him, hoping comfort until desperate dawns, and flight again… Frodo fading, no longer alert, no longer answering Sam’s concern, scarcely speaking, bright eyes greyed and lost in haze… just enduring… Then, of a sudden, hefted onto massive stallion, escape and lure… fleeing fell pursuit, plunging… until… ford and fall… and here, to wait…

A single hour of comfort since? Only stolen, cherished moments of such sweet holding… silken warmth tingling skin’s every fibre… so long ago…a moment ago… where is he?

Waiting, worrying… elves coming in and out, more vials, fresh linens, quiet voices…and still no Frodo… dozing propped on pillowed headboard… then more waiting, and, always, Frodo…

Until there, finally, bundled in elven arms, lean arm spilling limp from silken blankets… Sturdy arms held out for Frodo, laid carefully on Sam’s lap… moan and burrow, hand curled at Sam’s breast… cradling him, still asleep--or asleep again? Reaching under downy covers, lightly past bandages, finding flesh warmed… but so wrong… heated from the outside, not his living blood glowing through that fair skin. Rather… cold rising from deep within, chasing the hot springs’ lingering warmth from his limbs… cold seeping even through the blankets to chill Sam’s own arms and thighs and chest everywhere he was held so close… so close… as if such closeness could guard him now against what must come…

He could not guard him then… failed though tried, tried… flung aside. Endless night far colder as Ring-wraiths screeched shrill shrieking terror… utter cold indifference to one so dear… hounded to rough rocks ringing sweeping horror, as single-minded malice surged past puny swords, stabbing… and all caring, all love, all shielding stood for naught… And none at all left to stand with Frodo as Ring-lusting rapacious evil thrust into innocent flesh… anguish screamed as never sounded in Shire ears nor ever in the whole of Middle-earth…

Then… lost, lying pierced, invisible… lost until his will wrenched Ring from hand… and finally found, fair face masked and bright spirit hid by unimagined agony… suffering… fading, until only that strong will remained… all there was, all there is… is it enough?

Frodo’s will, glowing spirit flickering, this beloved body, and this moment with arms holding him close… and all thoughts fled… only fright filled fretting until movement in the room… shreds of a voice… Gandalf?

“Cannot find it… no more time… wake him… pain…  
decision…”

Was that an echo of despair? Rousing from dreadful dreams to misery, his own and all around… insistent voices requiring Sam to leave, go for sustenance before the next attempts… Frodo resting softly on his chest, drawing his only warmth from Sam himself… fair skin less chilled only where touching Sam, dark curls warmed by Sam’s own breath… but leave him… leave him?

“Samwise… the Lord Elrond must speak with the Ringbearer… alone…”

Ringbearer? Why? Only Frodo matters! Oh, why did this come to him?

Regretfully releasing tender hold… so wanting to see him awake… but not to face what would come… anguish rushing back without buffering sleep and art… oh, if they can’t hold back the pain… how can he bear that, so weak… pounding heartbeat unsteady, slight body too cold still, his hand icy now…

Elven hands lifting Frodo from Sam’s embrace, trying not to jar the injured shoulder… but still, sharp hiss of pain as he is laid back on the bed, paler, greyer, than before, breath harsher… restless… head twisting on pillow, dragging dark curls…

He’s waking, oh, he’s waking… cold hands tensing… gripping, crumpling sheets… Cannot leave, must leave, oh, Frodo, that this came to you… what can they need to say… oh, please, just help him! Leaning over him, hand cupping hollowed cheeks, thumb brushing across dry down-turned lips, tensing again as breath caught…

“Frodo, love, hold on… I’ll be right back here with you…”

Kissing furrowed brow, skin like carved marble… Then, leaving, unseeing through hot tears, almost running into Lord Elrond’s draped robes gliding, Gandalf striding, passing purposeful…

Haste, make haste… Tears scrubbed away… A gulp here, a bite there, and enough. Neither talk nor tell… take cousins’ love to Frodo…But hurry… hurry so as to wait the sooner, until a sign, a summons, a call… and it came when the tall door opened…

“Master Gamgee, the counsel is complete; it is time.”

And Aragorn, at the chamber door, catching his arm.

“A moment, Sam…” Such concern in his face, such meaning in his rough voice…

This commanded Sam’s attention and drew his focus from Frodo alone as nothing else had in all these long days. What? Sam collected himself to hear well whatever required this unexpected intervention.

“Yes, sir?”

Aragorn continued, “I will not long delay you, for haste is needed. But there are things that you must know, before you enter.” Aragorn’s expression was grim as he knelt before Sam to speak blunt words.

“Frodo has shown great courage in resisting for so long. But he cannot endure much longer. There is only time for this last effort. He may live, as we all hope, or die in the attempt… or be overcome by evil and fade. Frodo knows this… and more…” Aragorn paused; Sam returned his solemn look with dread. That these were terrible dangers he already knew; he braced himself to learn the ‘more’ as Aragorn continued, “The Wise, in mercy and in love, will not let him pass to torment in the wraith world, if they are able prevent it… and would offer him the last gift to our kind… Do you understand, Sam?”

All colour drained from Sam’s face as he listened, and he reached for Aragorn’s shoulder to steady himself; he closed his eyes a moment, breathing hard. This is what they talked about? And me not there for him? Oh, Frodo! I won’t ever leave you again! Mustering all his love for Frodo, he found strength he had not known he had, and replied, voice husky with pain, “Yes, sir, I do understand. And I would be with Mr. Frodo, whether or no, more now than ever. Now, sir, let me pass.”

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	7. Resistance

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The tall, carved door swung open to Aragorn’s touch; an unfamiliar word and gesture assured admittance past the vigilant elves standing watch during the crisis within. Sam stepped inside a room much changed in the short time since he had been sent forth. _Oh, Frodo, what is this? What are they doing to you?_ Sam hesitated, disoriented by the cold white mist drifting before him, through clear light, seeking every corner… and the vastness of pure sound…   
  
_Music!_ The entire room resonated as a fine instrument, strung with the sinews of Middle-earth itself. The air quivered with deep rhythms reverberating low, and piercing notes sung high… so far below and beyond Sam’s hearing that he could only feel them in his bones. Pure elven voices wove melody and counterpoint into a clear-loomed net, cast widely to capture the muffled mist mutely seeping, creeping… and the mist’s netted silence was woven also through their song.   
  
A host of elves stood singing, immobile, composed, wreathing the complexities of their music. And Sam threaded his way through a passage that seemed to open before him, though the elves moved not. He approached the bed, and stilled at the sight of silver trays bearing fine-honed, glistening implements. And he knew that he might yet see in truth, his vision of Frodo stained in blood. _Or are these the way to forestall the very worst? Oh, surely not!_  
  
He sought the helpful mirror. It was difficult to see clearly for elves and mist, even with the mirror’s aid. But in its glimpse he saw, for an instant of hope, an earlier reflection, indelible in his mind: Frodo surprised and laughing and alive, wryly amused at his predicament… sharing moments of trust with Sam… _Hold on to that, Samwise… those sweet moments…_ But memory could not protect against the painful reality reflected back now. The mist hung thick over Frodo’s body, and rose alarmingly from his very flesh, from the fearful wound itself. And as mist wafted anew with every heartbeat, Frodo seemed almost to dissipate, faded into its swirling coils, lost to light and vision.   
  
And through that mist, Lord Elrond sat close beside Frodo. One fine, tapered hand pressed firmly, palm down to the wound; the other poised, balanced at his breast, a silver glint at Frodo's heart... His expression was imperturbable, and his deep voice led the song. Gandalf, face creased with compassion and concern, stood in shielded power to Frodo’s other side. His staff cast the only light within the room and where its shimmering lucidity fell, the cold mist burned and steamed like fog seared in morning sunshine.   
  
Pale under the shrouding mist, lying between the Wise, Frodo was no longer peaceful. That blessed interlude had ended when this last battle was engaged. Sam could hear his panting breaths, catching in his chest, each forced and laborious, and through the mist he could see the pain in every tense line of his body. And, when at last Sam drew close enough to see Frodo himself, not merely his hazy reflection, he saw that Frodo was _awake…_ and his eyes… Sam gasped. _Oh, Frodo, no! What do you see that hurts you so?_  
  
Frodo’s midnight eyes were dark and wide with anguished vision, their focus fixed and distant, reflecting each remembered terror lying before him, lying to him: _Nazgul wraiths closing on him and Morgul blade striking anguish and, during all, the One Ring set corrupt on his hand!_   
  
None in Middle-earth, save the Dark Lord himself, had seen such horror and lived, nor could any resist the doom within that call; yet, somehow, Frodo had endured beyond hope. But will and body were failing him at last, unable to support his life against the compulsion of such evil. And Sam knew whatever would happen would happen now, and the Wise must summon all their age-long skill and healing art and deep compassion to the cause of Frodo’s life, if live he might.   
  
And by the powers, Sam would help as well, with love and strength and all his flickering hope. And if will and healing art should fail, if only that terrible ‘more’ might save his Frodo from horrors unimaginable, even beyond his death… then… at least that death should come safe in the arms of one who loved him, though it be more than that one could bear.   
  
Sam bit blood from his lip, knowing nothing could prepare him for what might come. He scrambled across the bed into the heaviest mist, glancing in defiant supplication to Gandalf and Lord Elrond. They acknowledged his presence with grave, accepting nods, and neither music nor light faltered. And it seemed to Sam that a glow of light fell on him in blessing and in hope as he claimed his right by love and service to be at Frodo’s side, here with Frodo in the centre of all…   
  
He did not believe that Frodo could see… not him, nor anyone or anything beyond the horrific phantoms of his mind. But, he would try to ensure that Frodo knew that his Sam was here for him, if Frodo were capable of such knowledge, still.   
  
“I’m here, Frodo!” he said, with a kiss to Frodo’s brow, as he took his place, lying beside him the better to enfold him, and hold him, and cling for his very life. And, was there the slightest lift of his chin towards Sam? _Oh, please - let him know I’m here… we’re here… for him… oh, Frodo, you’re not alone… never…_ Sam slid his arm beneath Frodo’s tensed shoulders, and spread his palm low and claiming over his belly, pressing his own body’s warmth close into Frodo’s chilled flesh. He strove to touch and hold at every possible point, yet not hinder the elven healing. And he shuddered at the throbbing tautness of that lean body, strung tight as an archer’s bow from legend.   
  
As the elven crescendo soared to new heights, the thick mist swirled the more malevolently low around them. It was almost impossible to catch clean breath now, even though Sam lifted his head to where it thinned, higher than Frodo could possibly do as he struggled for air. And despite all Sam’s effort to sweep the evil mist away with his hand, it now coiled so heavily at Frodo’s nose and mouth that he must inhale it, smothering, with his next rasping, pain-filled breath…   
  
_This is it, Sam! This is why you’re here… for his life… or his death… oh, hold on to him and never let him go… not to that… not to…_  
  
Breath and mist and music and light and the vicious torture tearing at Frodo, his face and body and mind, stood at apogee, poised on a teetering point of inevitability and it all must tilt… and plummet… to death, to life, to… what?   
  
With everything left to him, Frodo utterly rejected and defied the evil will that summoned him. His eyes closed tight against dread and vision, face contorted, lips thinned to bared white teeth. His hands stretched taut, then clenched, white-knuckled, clawing aimlessly, flailing tight-fisted against the bed, Sam, the air above. He fought with and for his own will, and Sam held fiercely and matched and met every blind and random step of pain in their mortal dance to the death… dance for life… reeling to the music, the summons, the light…   
  
And now, Frodo’s body convulsed beyond control, almost breaking Sam’s desperate hold, and pulsing violently out of time, against the music’s beat. His dark head snapped back against sweat-soaked sheets, spine arching sharply, in agony unconfined… With the last shreds of his defiance, and the last breath of his innocent life, Frodo screamed chaos into the midst of light and song.   
In that moment, all the power of the Wise coalesced focused by Frodo’s final cry. Gandalf’s staff flared incandescent. The evil mist hissed and sparked to cleansing flame, dissipated in a thousand glittering wisps, and was gone. The elven chorus swelled to its triumphant climax, thunderous and brilliant, and it seemed that all the voices ever known were uplifted to this one timeless song. And Frodo’s heartbreaking, piercing scream was interwoven with that immortal chorus: a tiny grace note, beautiful and pure; unexpected and unlikely, yet intrinsic to the whole.   
  
And then, Frodo collapsed, mercifully insensate, fragile in Sam’s arms.  
  
Suddenly, the room was filled with urgent commotion. Lord Elrond withdrew his hand from Frodo’s pale shoulder, within his grasp a malicious black shard, smelted and forged in darkness. Discarded into a basin, it steamed and fumed malevolence, a cruel will directing yet its seeking purpose until whirled away by hands eager to banish this last trace of Sauron’s Morgul blade. And in Lord Elrond’s other hand, rising away now from Frodo’s heart, was a thing Sam could not bear to look on: glinting sharp, the clean, unbloodied reminder of awful possibility.   
  
To think what might have been… _But, Frodo is alive!_ Sam closed his eyes and reached up to Frodo’s face, tracing his lips, touching his cheek, brushing across the stark brows and soft lashes, picturing that dear face in health as his fingers hovered lightly across the pallor he could almost feel through his fingertips. _It’s over now, Frodo, love… you did it… my Frodo…_   
  
Gentle elven hands wiped Frodo’s body with cleansing herbal oils and smoothed back his sweat-damp hair. He was lifted carefully, just enough for a silver cup of cool water, sweet-scented with a healing tincture, to be touched to his lips. The elves tending him stroked his throat to encourage a swallow and Sam was glad to see Frodo accept the soothing draught, though he did not stir to wakefulness. Sam gratefully sipped its calming comfort when the cup was offered to him, but would not move from Frodo’s side. Fearful that further injury had been done to Frodo’s shoulder, Sam forced himself to look, and was startled that the wound appeared unchanged, in spite of mist and pain. _At least he’s not been cut nor harmed to hurt the more… the hurt must be all on the inside… it is enough… more than enough… but it’s over…_ The cruel wound was anointed with healing salve and a silken binding wrapped over all.   
Sam sank down at Frodo’s side, and gave in to his need to enfold Frodo’s slim body in his arms, so relieved to feel living pulse and warmth returning. And Sam did not once release his fierce and tender hold, nor lift his tear-stained face from where it was buried in Frodo’s tangled curls, not even as careful hands reached gently between them, loosened his own clothing, and tucked soft covers around them both. “Sleep, Samwise… your Master will recover.” Another kind hand, Gandalf’s, Sam thought hazily, laid benediction on his head.   
  
Gradually, the room stilled, lit only by serene starlight. Sam reached to brush wayward tendrils of hair from Frodo’s face, and ran his fingers across the corner of lips now softened into sleep. “Sleep, love… sweet sleep, and nothing more to hurt you, my dearest, brave Frodo…” he murmured, with a kiss to Frodo’s cheek.   
  
Sam looked up. The mirror reflected tranquil elves seated on the far side of the room behind him, keeping watch over Frodo through this night. Beyond the mirror, through the filmy fabric floating, wafting at the arches, the ancient patterns of the stars sparkled, shimmering afar in the black sky. With a sigh, Sam turned from the tales they told, tales he had learned from the hobbit lying safe within his arms, and he laid his head beside Frodo’s. He pulled Frodo just a little closer, and felt him move, so slightly, deeper into his warm embrace. Overwhelmed by fatigue and hope fulfilled, Sam gave himself also to healing sleep.   
  


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	8. Morning

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Sam shifted languorously, and turned his face up from the warm darkness of Frodo’s hair into the bright morning light filling the bedchamber. He felt breath soft and slow on his cheek and opened his eyes to see Frodo, asleep next to him, safe, secure in his arms. His face was peaceful and fair again, although purpled shadows on the translucent skin and beneath black lashes plainly marked his ordeal. He lay on his back, his warm weight tilted and sheltered against Sam’s chest, and his hand was laced loosely with Sam’s over his belly, floating on the gentle rise and fall of his breathing, their pulses beating steadily together. _Did you wake in the night and seek my hand, or did I find yours, my love?_  
  
Sam lay still as memory of light and music and words of hope filled him with jubilant relief. And after a while, he squeezed Frodo’s hand very gently, slid his own from beneath it, and pushed up on his elbow to look at the source of his joy.  
  
“Frodo has come through this indeed, Samwise, by his courage and strength of will, and by grace… and your devotion was no small help.” Gandalf was seated in a large carved chair pulled close to the bed. Wreathes of pipe smoke scented the room with the fragrance of Old Toby and of home. Sam nodded greeting, unable to speak yet through the rush of emotion, as Gandalf continued, “He needs this restoring sleep and should not wake for a while. Perhaps you would trust him to my care while you refresh yourself and enjoy breakfast?” Gandalf smiled and added, _“Second_ breakfast, by now.”   
  
Sam acknowledged that as a sensible idea, reluctant though he was to leave Frodo’s side. “Yes, sir. He does need his sleep, doesn’t he, sir? Not likely to wake soon, neither. And you won’t leave him.” A statement, not a question, and Gandalf nodded solemn agreement, then gazed tactfully out past the balcony arches, a small smile playing on his lips, as Sam turned back to Frodo.  
  
 _It is so hard to leave you, but this time, you’re in no danger at all…_ Sam carefully withdrew his arm from beneath Frodo’s neck; the unexpected tug of the silver chain, catching at the hairs of his arm, gave him pause. _Well, danger there, still… but that’ll soon be rid, and left here safe with the elves and no concern of yours no more…_ He leaned down to brush his lips across Frodo’s brow. He whispered, “I won’t be long, Frodo. Sleep well, my love. You’ve earned it.”   
  
Sam extricated himself from the covers with some difficulty. He climbed out on the far side of the bed and straightened his clothes. He was still tired after the night’s ordeal, unsteady on his feet, and the more dizzy from relief; he knew he must tend to his own long neglected needs to be any good to anyone today. But what he wanted most was to see Frodo awake, alert, _himself_ again, to see for himself that body and bright spirit both had come through terror intact. He shook his head to clear it and, with a final check that buttons and tucks were presentable, turned back to take his leave of the wizard.   
  
“Mr. Gandalf, sir. Thank you, sir, for everything you did, and for letting me just be there with him. I don’t know as my help did that much, but I do know that yours did. Thank you.”   
  
“Samwise, there are none among us who would not have aided him any way we could… Frodo truly is an amazing hobbit,” Gandalf said, fondly regarding Frodo’s peacefully sleeping form. He leaned forward to place his hand gently on Frodo’s hair, and added, quietly, “It was exceedingly close... I think now that your _‘just being there’_ made more difference than you or I can know…” His voice trailed off, as he seemed to see beyond this chamber.   
  
Sam watched him closely. _There’s more on his mind than he’s saying, but that’s nothing new. Best leave those thoughts for those who are best at thinking them, Sam, and you just tend to your master. He needs rest and healing and whatever else those elves can do for him. That’s what he needs right now… and maybe, just a bit more…_  
  
“And Samwise, _you_ need breakfast! I shall be here with him until you return.”   
  
At Gandalf’s smile, Sam wondered, disconcerted, if the ancient wizard had the ability to hear his thoughts. _Now there’d be an earful if he’s heard the half about Frodo… but he’d know I’d never bring him harm! I just love him, whether or no…_ Bemused by puzzlement at just what the wizard knew, and joy at the miracle of Frodo’s survival, Sam answered, “Yes, sir, I suppose I do. I’ll be back in two shakes.” And with a last look to confirm Frodo’s peaceful sleep, Sam slipped away.   
  


* * *

  
  
As much as Sam needed refreshment, he would not have left for even a moment, had he known that his absence would wrest Frodo from his hard-won slumber. For Frodo soon became restless and stirred, burrowing beneath downy covers, unsuccessfully seeking warm arms secure around him, a sturdy body lying next to him. The empty sheets he found instead were already cooling, and offered no solace for the alarming, but dim, memories that troubled him as he roused. Gradually, he wakened, disoriented and confused, and he could not shake a lingering sense of loss. With a wince, he rolled away from the pillow he had clasped to him and opened his eyes to see Gandalf nearby.   
  
Gandalf greeted him warmly as he struggled up to lean against the cushioned headboard, and offered words of comfort and reassurance. And Frodo realised that the long nightmare had given way to a lovely clear morning, and that, somehow, he had survived. _I did not know I could… though I wanted so to live…_ He closed his eyes and lay back against the pillows, trembling, aware that Gandalf watched him closely. _To live as myself, as a hobbit… or if I must, to die mercifully, still myself… rather than… than…_ He blanched, and his body stiffened as he remembered suffering and the torment seeking to rip his will to shreds…   
  
“It is over, Frodo. You are safe, among those who care for you.”   
  
Gandalf’s hand fell kindly on his shoulder, and his tremors stilled beneath its utter steadiness. He opened his eyes. _Yes, you were there with me at the end… and a light…_  
  
But there were long gaps in his fragmented recollections of these last days, and while he accepted that some forgetfulness was a great mercy, he wanted desperately to learn what had happened, that he might pick up the torn strands of his life. Patiently, Gandalf answered as many questions as he had endurance to ask, and told him of wraiths and blades and possibilities that were still terrifying in the clear light of morning. And, as he strove to understand incomprehensible evil, and beyond that, such miraculous healing, Frodo knew that what he wanted now, more than anything else, was simply to be with Sam…   
  


* * *

  
  
It was longer than Sam had hoped before he could return to Frodo’s chamber. Food and freshening took no time at all, even though Sam made himself eat heartily from an array of fragrant plums, the lightest and most buttery pastries he’d ever tasted, herb and mushroom omelettes both, and honeyed tea. _You’re no good to anyone if you don’t keep your strength up… just as Merry and Pippin insisted when you could barely keep a bite down. It was all ashes then, no matter how pretty it looked… but this is delicious!_ And Sam found that it wasn’t difficult at all to eat enough to make up for all those missed meals. His only regret was that Frodo was not with him…   
  
_He’d love these mushrooms, and all that sweet clover honey. Surely one of the first things they’ll do is feed him, just easy fare that settles well, when you haven’t eaten for so long… so very long…_ And for a second, all fell to ash again in his mouth, and he felt the delicate shape of curved bones in a frame wasting even slighter. He washed the memories away with a gulp of tea. _Why, next thing you know, he’ll be eating enough for any two hobbits, specially with treats like these. And if they don’t do right by him, well, I’ll just find the kitchens myself…_ And even now, Sam had to chuckle at the unlikely thought that the elves, whose tender care for Frodo had met even his exacting standards, would miss anything for him now.   
  
As Sam was pushing away from the table, Merry and Pippin found him. They clearly knew already that Frodo had come safely through the night, and assured Sam that, with that consolation, Bilbo had finally been convinced to rest, grey-faced and trembling after the night’s vigil. _Good thing dear old Mr. Bilbo weren’t in there. I don’t know that he could have stood it. I don’t know how I stood it. Nor Frodo…_  
  
“Sam, I know this must be difficult, but we’ve been so worried, and would hear whatever you can tell.” Merry’s voice was quiet, but his and Pippin’s faces clearly showed their concern. “Perhaps over another cup of tea, before you go back to him?”   
  
Sam knew that there was a need to talk, though it would delay him from returning where he most wanted to be. As Pippin poured hot tea for each of them and passed honey and biscuits, Sam tried to collect his thoughts, and found that it was even some relief to speak of the healing with these hobbits who also loved Frodo dearly. Sam told them of the creeping mist, and learned that they too had glimpsed and felt its chill malevolence wafting across Frodo’s body. He spoke of the ethereal music, and knew his words did not in any way do it justice; but they had heard it spilling forth from Frodo’s chamber in the night and had felt its power. He tried to describe the cleansing light sparking and searing from Gandalf’s staff, and again, words failed; he could only remember a sense of hope, unfurling as the light fell upon him.   
  
And although Sam could see in their troubled expressions their need to hear of Frodo himself, he could not bring himself to speak of the agony in Frodo’s face and body. But, the sudden piercing memory of that final scream and collapse released his own tightly contained grief for all that Frodo had suffered. He stared down, unseeing, and the tears he had suppressed fell at last as Merry rubbed his back comfortingly, and Pippin held onto him, crying softly. Finally, Sam looked up, his face again calm. Brushing away the tears with the back of his hand, he said, simply, “It was far too close. But he’s a strong one…” Sam noted their nods of agreement, and added, very softly, “It took everything he had… and he was worn out, well before the end… but he just held on and held on…” Sam’s voice faltered, and he looked anxiously toward Frodo’s chamber. “He was still sleeping when I left, but he could wake, any time…”   
  
With sympathetic understanding that there was much more that Sam could not tell now, or perhaps ever, Merry squeezed his shoulder. It was clear enough from what Sam left unsaid that this miracle had been bought at an appalling price to Frodo. Merry shuddered to think what his beloved cousin had endured even beyond what they had witnessed on the way to Rivendell.   
  
Pippin gave Sam another quick hug, saying in a hoarse voice, “Dear Frodo… I am so glad you were there for him, Sam.” Then Sam excused himself, eager to return to Frodo, knowing that the cousins would see him for themselves soon enough.   
  
The door to Frodo’s chamber stood open and Sam saw, to his delight, that Frodo was already awake and sitting up in bed, supported by pillows bolstered all around him. A woven blanket was draped over his shoulders and chest, and his usually animated hands rested quietly, folded together on his lap. And as Sam took in the sight of him, thrilled to see him awake, it struck him suddenly that, as closely as he had held Frodo these last days, as intimately as he had touched him, as much as he had suffered for and with him, he had no idea what Frodo knew… or whether he remembered any of it. Sam felt a rush of queasiness as he realised that it was quite possible that Frodo remembered absolutely _nothing...  
  
All he’s borne and been through must change him, whatever he knows of it… How could it not? But what does he remember? Oh, I hope not the worst – may he never recall that! But, please, let him remember… let him know…_  
  
Sam shoved aside his sudden trepidation. _Now, Samwise, you just set aside your concerns, because what he remembers or not has nothing to do with his need to have you calm and here for him now…_ He rapped at the doorframe to announce his arrival. As Frodo turned to see, his darkened eyes and bruised fragility tore at Sam’s heart, and emotions that Sam could not read flickered across his face. And, then, before Sam could identify them, his face lit with a smile of such warmth that Sam almost lost his footing as he hurried across the room to him.   
  
Sam hoped he remembered to nod greeting to Gandalf, but his attention was all for Frodo and he rushed the last few steps to his bedside.   
  
“Oh, Mr. Frodo, sir, you’re awake!”   
  
“Sam!” Frodo reached out eagerly to Sam, but his sharp intake of breath proved such sudden movement to be unwise. Sam caught his hand in midair – _Oh, mercy, it’s so warm!_ – and leaned to kiss it lightly, watching Frodo’s eyes closely, seeing there welcome, and inquiry, and something new… invitation? _His eyes! He doesn’t really need words, much as he loves them. Now if I can just be sure to read aright what he’s telling me…_ Frodo turned his hand in Sam’s, and for a moment, his fingertips touched Sam’s lips, before withdrawing to rest again on his lap. When he spoke, his usually melodious voice was rough, but far stronger than Sam had expected.   
  
“Yes, wide awake now, though I feel I have been lost in dark dreams for a very long time. Gandalf tells me that’s not far from truth.” Frodo frowned a moment, looking down at his lap, absently rubbing the back of his hand, and then his face cleared. “I do recall some of it, though.”   
  
Frodo gazed up at Sam, and there was a hint of a smile returning. “There was some light, even in all that darkness. Everyone was very kind to me, especially during the peaceful time the elves gave me…” Frodo nodded appreciatively towards Gandalf, but turned right back to Sam, lips quirked, and dark brow lifted. He looked intently at Sam, and spoke, his voice low and lilting for Sam’s ears alone, laden with meaning beyond his words, “I remember some moments quite well, in fact, Sam…” And his eyes were now as sparkling and spirited as in the memories Sam had clung to during that long, chilled nightmare vigil, his expression as warm and melting as ever Sam had dreamed.   
  
Sam felt the air rush from the room, and he could not take his eyes from Frodo’s. _Oh, my Frodo… you_ do _remember!_ He caught his breath, cleared his throat, and managed, “Mr. Frodo, sir, I – I–” _Say something, Sam!_  
  
But Gandalf interrupted the thoughts Sam had barely strung together.   
  
“Excuse me, Frodo, Sam… Frodo, the elves are here for you. They can offer more to encourage your recovery. Nothing unpleasant at all, my dear hobbit,” he added, much to Frodo’s relief. “But, you must go with them now.”   
  
Sam glanced to the elves waiting patiently by the mirror, one of them bearing a tray of vials and decanters that looked distinctly medicinal to his eyes; he was reminded painfully of his first sight of Frodo, lying pale and unconscious before that same mirror. _Whatever they can do, must be done! But, they’re going to take you… before I have a chance to tell you… Oh, Frodo!_   
  
As Sam turned back to him, Frodo saw fleeting anguish on his face, and knew his hurts had hurt Sam, too… and was that also disappointment, frustration mirroring his own? He sighed and touched Sam’s hand, feeling it close tightly over his as if such comfort had always been shared. _Perhaps I could stay… delay this elvish treatment, if only for awhile, so that we might have some time… It’s not that I am ungrateful… and I do hurt still… but…_ It was difficult not to be irritated when both his pain and the healing offered were in the way of what he really wanted.   
  
Gandalf read the hesitation easily, and his, “ _Now_ , my dear hobbit,” was firm though fond.   
  
Frodo gave Sam a small, rueful smile, and the slightest shrug of his shoulders, and Sam could only lean down to press a tender kiss on the tumbled dark curls. As Sam bent close, Frodo turned his face up to him and said, softly, “I can’t think this will take very long. The elves have already ‘seen’ much of me lately, as have _you_ , my Sam…” His eyes shone; his gentle voice lowered, deepened, and he asked, “Would you… see more, Sam?” And for the very first time, Sam heard raw need in that familiar voice, and saw in Frodo’s eyes his vulnerability exposed far more than ever his body had been in all the days of illness. Sam wanted nothing so much as to take him in his arms right there, comfort him, and explore every meaning suggested by those beautiful eyes and his simple words and that hoarseness in his voice…   
  
“I’ll be right here, Mr. Frodo, soon as they allow.” He brushed a kiss across Frodo’s brow, and murmured, low for Frodo’s ears only, “Yes, sir… now and always…” And Frodo’s face cleared, and his smile became radiant, and Sam heard the sharp release of the breath Frodo had held so tensely. Sam dared to raise Frodo’s hand to his lips and rest his cheek against it, eyes locked with Frodo’s for a long moment. _Ah, your hand is so warm now, with health returning… with this heat burning between us… Frodo…_  
  
Then Sam stood back reluctantly, as a graceful elf stepped forward and offered to carry Frodo to rooms nearby for the ministrations required. With his customary courtesy, Frodo declined and wished to walk, but after a cautionary word from Gandalf, he deferred to elven judgment and accepted, equally politely. Sam smiled, glad to see Frodo well enough to exert his own strong will; he and the wizard exchanged a fond and knowing look over Frodo’s head.   
  
Frodo was wrapped discreetly in a soft robe and as he was lifted, he could not prevent a hiss of pain. It was obvious from the sudden strain in his breathing that his body had not recovered as quickly as his wit and composure had done. Sam hands clenched protectively and he could hardly restrain himself from going to Frodo’s side. But then, there was no time for more talk or touch, for Frodo was gone, and the mirror reflected only empty white sheets, dragging dishevelled onto the floor.   
  
Gandalf offered words of comfort. “Samwise, Frodo awoke only a short time before you returned. It is an excellent sign, Sam, that he is already so much recovered. Quite himself!” Gandalf chuckled, and Sam wondered again what he might know, from mind reading or simply from astute observation. “Frodo will feel much better when he returns, I dare say.”   
  
“Yes, sir. I do hope so, sir.” Whatever I can do to help him feel better, is as good as done. Oh, Frodo, love! I can hardly wait to see you again!   
  


* * *

  
  



	9. Chapter 9

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For long moments, Sam stood as though rooted within Frodo’s chamber, seeing Frodo still before him, hearing only his voice, his words telling Sam so much. _I can only let you go knowing you need whatever they can do. But there is so much I hope to do, too, for you, with you, to you… Frodo, be well… be back…_  
  
He gradually became aware that, as empty as the chamber seemed to him with Frodo gone, it had filled with graceful elves, freshening rumpled linens and clearing surfaces cluttered with the tools of healing and care used during Frodo’s long illness. His first instinct was to help, but before he could even decide what best to do, Gandalf laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, and spoke.   
  
“Samwise, there is a balcony nearby, with fresh air and a new day to enjoy. Perhaps some rest and some quiet might benefit you, and your master, as he is tended. I should think you might find him returned soon after lunch, and I shall request that you be told if it is other than that.”   
  
Sam looked up, and saw firm kindness, and sympathetic understanding, on Gandalf’s face. _He means me to do just that, doesn’t he! And looks like I’m only in the way here, and, yes, it would be nice to sit and think of Frodo, and all that has happened…_  
  
Sam left Frodo’s chambers, reluctantly. _There’s nowhere else I’ve wanted to be since we got here, but only because he was there – and he’ll want me there soon as he's back!_ He removed himself to the balcony Gandalf had suggested, and found a bench in a quiet corner, amidst rustling leaves, where he could gaze across the valley to the cliffs and tumbling waterfalls beyond. They no longer appeared bleak to him, but wild and majestic, and the music of falling water restored to him a sense of peace. This day was like none he had yet seen in Rivendell and a litany of hope rang in his mind: _Frodo survived. Frodo is safe. Frodo will recover._ And Sam found himself able, finally, to set aside the remnants of his terrible fear and wrenching worry.   
  
He let himself float in happy memories of more peaceful times, picturing Frodo, always beautiful, and as fey as if he had walked right out of one of those old tales. Frodo’s living vivacity and Sam’s vivid dreams had always made any other hobbit pale by comparison, and Sam had long since decided that his Mr. Frodo, and a dream, were all he would ever need. To guard the happiness he already received, simply from enjoying Frodo’s company and working for him, he had carefully concealed such thoughts, creating sweet visions, which he had neither seen, nor ever thought to see, in his waking life. And, it was enough; it _had been_ enough.   
  
But now… A simple question resounded through his mind, asking again and again: _“Would you see…?”_ And there had only ever been one answer to that. Sam closed his eyes, and quivered with longing, knowing his most cherished dreams might now be fulfilled in truth.   
_  
Oh, Frodo, what will it be, to see you… loving? Awake, yourself again, but as I’ve never seen you, filled with the wanting I saw in your eyes and heard in your voice, and held risen in your body… Oh, yes, Frodo, I would see you! Touch you… hold you… love you any way I can…  
  
I was so afraid… of so much, and that I might never be able to tell you how much I love you. Could I have told you sooner? I don’t know…_ And Sam’s joy at this miracle received, was tinged with a pang of regret that he had not spoken before. _It is by your courage that we know now… When did you know, Frodo?_ He realised then that there was something he had never dared wonder before, through all those contented years in The Shire. _I just accepted what we already had, and it was a good life. I did not ask for more, but…  
  
…what of your dreams, Frodo? _  
  
Had Frodo dreamed ever of someone special, someone dear? Certainly, he had several good friends, and his kinfolk, who obviously thought the world of him. In fact, most anyone in the Shire who knew him, respected his quiet integrity and gentleness – from a distance, since he didn’t let many, besides those few, get very close to him. And Sam did know that several had tried, for various reasons, good or ill. But, Sam could not recall Frodo returning such advances with anything more than courtesy; nor had he ever shown a romantic interest in any hobbit. And Sam was sure that he would have known, would have known the hurt of it; though if Frodo were happy, that would have been enough, and he would have borne it, if he could… But Frodo had not, and Sam had never had to find a way to let his Mr. Frodo go.   
  
Or, if not a flesh-and-blood hobbit in The Shire, had Frodo dreamed instead of ancient romance and passion, enjoyed heated fantasies drawn from the texts he loved? He seemed often to drift, lost in those high tales and great deeds. And every star above told him legends; he would point and paint the patterns in the night sky to share with Sam. _I suppose I just thought he found everything he needed in that vivid imagination… and his books…_  
  
But Frodo certainly didn’t read _all_ the time, and Sam could recall his own indignation, hearing Mr. Frodo teased by his cousins for his preoccupation with old books and inkpots. And there was no question that his quick and curious mind was merged with physical grace and agility.   
  
_Why, it only takes half an eye to see he’s fit and strong, leastways before all this, what with everything he enjoys outside: rambling those hikes together, with a sudden storm wind tangling curls cross his face and him laughing and pushing them back, all impatient to get on to wherever he wanted us to go. And climbing trees for those crisp sweet apples, plucking and dropping the reddest so’s I could catch them for him. And that swimming he likes so much, any chance he gets, while I fretted for fear I’d have to go in after him!  
  
But, he does love his books…_ Frodo, savouring the pronunciation of melodious elven phrases… glancing up to see Sam’s appreciative smile.   
  
_And the gardens…_ Frodo, curled in shade nearby, a book on his lap, pausing to watch while Sam tended the plants…   
  
_And being with his closest friends, and with me…_ Frodo, breaking from his studies, or whatever task he had at hand, to seek out Sam in the gardens or the smial or even sometimes on Bagshot Row, with an invitation to talk or listen or walk, or simply to sit together in comfortable silence, sharing a pipe or a quiet drink. Any time they were together, Frodo always seemed as content as Sam was himself, and those were the times when Frodo was most peaceful and happy…   
  
_Frodo loves all those he lets close, and in truth, I can’t remember a time when I didn’t know that he loves me, too…_ Sam knew he had long been held dear as trusted friend, as fellow student of the old tales, and as well-respected gardener, whose knowledge and gifts were quite different from Frodo’s own. And his Mr. Frodo had always encouraged Sam’s own interests, been happy for Sam’s own joys, listened to Sam’s concerns, from the time Sam was a lad learning from a gentle tutor, 'til he was an adult whose opinions Frodo sought and considered on so many issues. _His kindness and generosity gave me the work I love best, and free reign in the finest gardens around, to boot…  
  
And in all my years of service, Frodo never once asked more than his due, nor but a tiny bit of what I’d have given gladly. And what’s more, for every thing I ever did for him, he’s done tenfold for me, out of plain thoughtfulness and sharing, and sometimes not even knowing how much he gives just being himself… and if that isn’t love...   
  
But even beyond all that love all these years… _  
  
In a moment of utter trust and deepest need, suspended between life and death, or worse, balanced together on the splintered edge of a broken blade, his Frodo had revealed even more, far beyond what had ever been spoken between them: that he also desired Sam. He had said so then, as plainly he was able to do, shadows looming before him: with his gentle hand inviting, with his body welcoming Sam’s intimate caress, and with a soft sigh… _And when he reached for my touch, it was from wanting me – and want of life itself. Oh, my Frodo!  
  
I must go to him, find him, say what I’ve wanted to say for so long, what he needs to hear from me, what I thought I might never have the chance to tell him! _  
  
Then, with sudden insight that caught at his heart, Sam realised that whatever he might say, Frodo must already know. Everything that had ever passed between them had proven Sam’s love to Frodo, and Frodo’s to Sam, and it was _because_ Frodo knew that love that he could show that he needed Sam, that he _had_ dreamed of more.   
  
And now, in the heat of a sensuous silken touch, he had offered _everything_. Sam’s breath caught and he closed his eyes. Recent memory tingled on his skin and in his hands for the feel of Frodo, wakened and trusting… embattled and brave… needing, wanting Sam’s comfort and love through lull and storm and night triumphant. He heard Frodo’s well-loved voice, saying so much with that soft ‘ _my Sam’_ and a husky ‘ _Would you…?_ ’ He saw again the invitation in expressive eyes, blue as the clear autumn sky before the turn of winter… as The Water dark flowing at dusk… as summer-lit larkspur and delphinium at dawn…   
  
Finally, sitting here in Rivendell, far from their Shire and the life they had known, all became clear to Sam. _My Frodo lives… and he loves… and this miracle has given me my every dream…_ A rush of pure joy overwhelmed him. Dizzying heat surged and burned, flaring at the memory of that moment that had changed his world. He closed his eyes, resting his forehead against his hands, and took several deep breaths to steady himself. He could _feel_ Frodo in his arms, lithe, alert, so very alive… He saw his own sun-browned hands laid in desire on that fair, familiar face, on the white skin of arched throat and smooth chest and taut belly, stroking down… coaxing… nurturing need to fulfilment… Sam’s eyes flew open, and he looked down in wonderment as he held his hands out before him. _May these hands… may I… give him every pleasure he ever dreamed and even more…_   
  
And then, with a start and a gasp and a grin, anticipation shuddered through him anew. _Oh, my! Frodo always gives good as he gets! He’s likely to have some pretty good ideas of his own, what with that imagination, and those lovely, lively hands of his… Oh!_  
  
Well, we may lack some experience between us, but neither of us has ever wanted for dreams! Samwise Gamgee, if you have ever done anything in all your life, you cherish every bit of time we have together! You’ve had a miracle, but you almost lost him… Whatever time we may have together is all spared moments, and don’t you never take a second of them for granted! Oh, Frodo, love! Soon…  
  


* * *

 


	10. Reflections

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Frodo found it very odd to be carried, especially by a tall, serene elf, who did not appear at all disconcerted by his small hobbit burden. And, that was odd, as well, to think of himself as _small._   
  
As he was borne swiftly away from the comforting presence of Gandalf – and his Sam – it seemed, suddenly, that everything – the bed, the benches, the doorways along the hall stretching ahead, the grand arches and breathtaking vistas beyond, even the elves themselves – _everything_ , while beautiful, was too large, too unfamiliar, too strange. And, it was disorienting enough, after all he had just survived, that for a moment he closed his eyes, and let fall a soft sigh, his body stiffening, his arm tightening reflexively around the elf’s shoulder.   
  
_I wish I might have stayed much longer with Sam… that there had been time to pull him close… to be alone with him…_ But he knew his whirling thoughts and emotions needed a chance to settle, that he needed time to shake free from the remnants of utter nightmare. He was grateful for the elven efforts on his behalf, and he tried to find patience and enthusiasm for what must yet be done. _Whatever might help me recover the sooner should surely be welcomed. I will return to Sam as fit as possible… so that… so that… well, I’ll think of that later…_ Such pleasantly distracting thoughts of Sam soothed and inspired him, and he opened his eyes, again feeling that he could face what the elves had in store for him.   
  
The elf bearing him engaged Frodo in light conversation, as courteously as though they had met in less unusual circumstances, and pointed out the graceful waterfall visible through the arches, and a statue depicting ancient legend. He learned that his bedchamber was one of several peaceful suites devoted to elvish healing and restoration. He could see through opened doors that most of the rooms shared a balcony and a spectacular view of the ravine, but one candlelit chamber, quite close to his own room, seemed to extend deep into the living rock of the cliff itself, and he could hear tumbling water within as they passed.   
  
Such gracious hospitality made his weakness and confusion seem less undignified to him; even the grand scale of all they passed seemed less intimidating. He began to feel that he might actually recover his usual resilient good health, and be able to think again… and he knew, with every thought of Sam, never far from his mind, that he was certainly still able to _feel..._  
  
They arrived quickly at their destination, and Frodo gazed curiously about the light-filled chamber. A balcony extended along the far side of the room, and above its arched doorways, there were high clerestory windows through which he could see the midday sun and bright clouds in a vivid autumn sky. Tall glass-fronted cabinets of some darkly polished wood stood between the arches, filled with gleaming bottles and tiny, stoppered vials, each with an elegant label in a flowing black script. Various high benches were scattered throughout the room; on some were implements that reminded him of an apothecary: mortars, pestles, small papers for folding around medicines, glassware with lines marked for measuring. Other benches were padded, with a supply of linens of various sizes and textures folded at hand.   
  
Frodo was set down on a large cushioned bench facing a hearth with a cheery, crackling fire, and invited to enjoy simple food and drink from a table within easy reach. _How long did Gandalf say it was, since I came to Rivendell? It feels like forever since I’ve eaten…_  
  
Sunlight sparkled through a graceful decanter and a goblet of golden liqueur, which he was told would be good for him, as well as pleasant tasting. He tasted it, and found it like mead from summer festivals at home in The Shire, with a tang of clover and something faintly herbal. Frodo helped himself to portions of everything from an enticing platter of crusty rolls and soft orange cheese, and a silver bowl of crisp red apple quarters, a cluster of purple-globed grapes, and slices of rose-blushed peaches. A small, steaming tureen brimmed with creamy mushroom soup that even smelled like the fragrant soups of home. _This is so thoughtful! Someone must have told them my favourites. Sam, perhaps? It is wonderful to feel hunger again…_ And he smiled to himself, feeling strength and good humour flow back as he savoured food that tasted better than any he could recall.   
  
_I would have liked to share this meal. I wonder what Sam is doing now they have whisked me away? Resting, I hope, after these days of fear. He must have worried for me, but that is past, and soon, we will share…_ Even more restorative than the excellent food, were the images of Sam, and the memory of Sam’s touch. Frodo longed to return to him, to tell him and show him how very much he was loved and needed… and desired…   
  
But now, the food was cleared away, and it was time for such healing art as the elves might offer him. He had been aware of quiet preparations for what he assumed would be the ‘further treatments’: amber oils had been warmed, releasing herbal scents; medicinal smelling unguents blended; and towels and silken drapes were set forth by a tall padded bench.   
  
The two elves remaining with him explained what each would do, offered to answer any questions, and asked a few themselves, clearly aware of the rare nature of his hurts. Frodo was rather amused at their restrained curiosity about his unique injury. _This must have been the talk of Rivendell! Who would have thought that a hobbit from The Shire would ever cause such a stir here?_  
  
He was lifted gently to the high bench. Careful examination of the cold scar was painful, but not unbearable; he was reassured that most of his discomfort was due to healing, rather than continuing harm, although some lingering tenderness was expected. Then, healing massage was described, and offered, and he accepted that what might seem strange was still necessary, and possibly even pleasant.   
  
Frodo shrugged cautiously out of the overlarge robe and let it fall from his shoulders, then pulled the Ring and chain around his neck, out of the way. They helped him to lie down on his back, stretched out on the bench, and were careful to protect his wounded shoulder, and to preserve his modesty with filmy draping cloths. That reminded him of their earlier attempts and he barely suppressed a laughing snort. _I do hope this works better than before! They must have seen rather a lot of me these past days. But Sam didn’t mind… Oh! Calm down, Frodo! Now is not the time to think on Sam! That requires more concealment than you can trust from those clinging, flimsy things!  
  
Distraction! Well, this massage should do it. As odd as it was to be carried, this will be disconcerting indeed… _  
  
It was difficult at first to submit to the healing elven hands on his body; no one had ever touched him quite like this. However, these hands recalled sweet memories of his mother’s tender care in a long distant childhood, and, much to his relief, they did not feel in any way like the sensuous, loving touch of the dear sturdy hands he had known more recently, and longed to know better. _Could hobbit hands do this? Perhaps I could learn? It would feel very differently offered with love… desire… Oh… yes… Sam would like this… Oh! Better not think on that!_  
  
Frodo set aside his musings on massage and his Sam, and let himself drift, trustingly, to formless, unthinking sensation, as his chest and belly, and even, to his surprise, his face and neck, were oiled and rubbed with rhythmic, varying pressures. Tight muscles were gently kneaded, with long strokes soothing the ache in his arms and legs. And, then, he was very carefully helped to turn over onto his belly for massage of his back and shoulders and hips. He found, for the first time in many long days, that he could again bear to lie on his stomach, without too much protest from his wounded shoulder.   
  
And, finally, under this tender care, lying on the padded table with sunlight falling warm across him, Frodo relaxed and set aside the worry and pain of burden and wound. He drowsed for a time as the elf ministering to him continued to ease his hurts, and as he drifted along the edge of sleep, he heard someone singing. Although he did not know all the elvish words, he recognised the lore behind the lyrics, the ancient myth threaded through the music. And as he listened, it seemed to him that salt waves tumbled and broke on a distant shore far beyond any he had seen in waking life. They floated him on healing currents, swept him to heated springs where renewing waters rose from the very foundations of Middle-earth. And the vital waters soaked into his skin, eddied through his veins, and invigorated him for what might lie ahead. He was drenched and healed and finally restored, then washed upon a nearer shore, to wake to the rippling sound of water falling… and find himself still on the bench, still receiving that tireless healing touch, and glad to know himself so very alive.   
  
A clear voice spoke through the haze of loosened limbs and lessened concerns. “Frodo… wake now. Let me help you…” A strong arm was offered and he was able to pull himself to sit on the side of the bench. He felt invigorated, revitalised, and wondering, he stretched, finding his muscles supple and limber. Then he flexed his wounded shoulder, gingerly, and was relieved that it was far less painful than it had been.   
  
“Thank you. My shoulder is much better, and I truly feel revived, quite amazingly so.” He looked up questioningly at the elf standing before him now, arms ready to lift Frodo once more.   
  
“I am glad that it has helped, Frodo. Now, I will take you to bathe in healing waters.” The elf made to lift him, but Frodo stopped him with a shake of his head, and his hand stayed the proffered arm.   
  
“I appreciate your kindness, but I believe I _can_ walk now, and would like to do so.” Guarding his shoulder, he slipped down from the bench to find that indeed, he did feel well enough to manage on his own. His attendant guided him to the bathing chamber, that candle-lit recess in the cliff which they had passed earlier. Frodo thanked him once more, and graciously refused his offers of further assistance, and so he departed, assured that Frodo was now strong enough for safety, and sensitive to his desire for time alone.   
  
Frodo stood for a moment to marvel at a bathing room like none he had seen. Torches in vine-like sconces and small white candles cast a golden glow upon dark, glistening rock. The natural cliff rose, slanting, from the farther end of the pool; a sparkling stream wound across its face to fall into a turbulence, which rippled out into gentle waves near him. Elven artistry and wild rock were merged seamlessly; steps and benches shaped into the sides of the pool so artfully, that he could not tell where elven carving ended and nature began. The water steamed in loops and coils as though heated; he could feel the warmth drifting towards him. _How is that done? No fire, too deep for the sun… Perhaps as in the song? I have heard of such waters springing above volcanic fire within the very depths…_  
  
The pool was large enough for a hobbit to swim, and he wondered hopefully whether he would soon feel well enough even for that. Carefully, holding to a railing wrought with leaf and lily, he climbed down shallow steps into the foaming water, sighing as the heat rose past ankles, hips, and finally up to his chest. A basket of scented soaps and towels nearby caught his attention. _Lavender soap? As from home? Another thoughtful touch… I wonder if Sam told them?_ He lathered the massage lotion from the tendrils of hair clinging to his forehead and the nape of his neck, and from lean limbs slick with oil. He ducked his head to rinse clouds of bubbles into the hot water, steamy wisps and foam rising from the surface. Then, his arms spread out upon the water, he let his body drift up so that he was floating, rocking in the warm eddies and the softly flickering glow, eyes closed and thoughts adrift.   
  
But as relaxed as he was and as safe as he felt, Frodo was aware that terrors lurked still behind his closed lids. _There are things I must think about, dangers I could never have imagined at home… but it is so hard to think on them…_ He frowned and sought for comfort in the pleasant languor of lying in this lovely pool. _So different from my prosaic bath with its kettles of boiling water at Bag End. That was such a placid life, compared to what I have known of late…  
  
No, at home I could never have imagined what I have seen or what I have known now. The very worst of The Shire was as nothing compared to that! Though perhaps all evil, even the petty meanness I saw occasionally there, is somehow of a kind, if not the same degree… I doubt I shall ever truly understand why all this has happened to me, though Gandalf has explained so much and so well…   
  
But I think that, even in my own study, I did catch at least a glimpse of such terrible evil, in all the myths and great tales I studied, since Bilbo first taught me. They are filled with malice and despair, as well as beauty and love. And I am certainly not the first to be hurt by the Ring or darkness or Morgul blade, nor the only one to suffer. But just as I saw those hints of great evil from my study, so too did I catch glimpses of an even greater joy. In those same tales, in the beauty of the stars and storms above Bag End; and especially, in the face of my Sam - always dear to me, and so beloved, too, had I just seen then as I see now.   
  
That joy… It is as though I thought I knew water, from what I saw in The Shire, contained in my own teapot and bath, running free in little rivers, or even wild in the sudden storms of spring; and, thinking that was all, I then encountered the greatness of The Sea. My books had hinted at it, but I did not and do not know The Sea, nor do I expect that ever I shall. But I have read of it, vast and beautiful, and knowing that it is there makes the water I do know mean even more to me… Is joy like that?   
  
Oh, Sam, I have seen, and known such joy with you! There is so much happiness we have shared already; the truest friendship, and even a life companionably side by side. And I was content with that, only glimpsing more, for I believed that ever having more was only a dream… A dream that would be as far beyond what I have known as The Sea is beyond The Water…   
  
And now, I have been incredibly fortunate, for I am here, despite all - saved from a terrible death, or worse that I cannot bear to think on now… Comforted by such kindness here in Rivendell, and even loved, as I know I am, and have always been. And I know that I love, and that I want that joy I only glimpsed before…   
  
There is something I read - what was it? Ah, yes! _“Beauties which pierce like swords or burn like cold iron…” _Yes, that was it. And now, I can truly understand beauty, and a joy so vast that it almost breaks my heart, far greater even than the terror.  
  
Oh, I want that with Sam! There would be beauty piercing more deeply than any sword, even the Morgul blade I have known so bitterly – and such a burning joy beyond mere cold iron! As I lay afraid, almost overcome by pain and death and evil, Sam’s arms and his love helped me hold to life, to remember what life is. And I want life. I want Sam, and I believe he wants me… and now, there will be time… _  
  
Love for his golden, beautiful Sam called to Frodo in the vivid images from his dreams. And his recovering body answered with a surging tide of warmth and rising heat: desire for Sam mingled with his desperate desire for life itself. He slipped lower in the steaming pool, and reclined on a ledge, rocked by gentle waves.   
Dream merged now with memory: Sam’s strong hands, nestling the tenderest of seedlings into rich black soil, twining vines onto a trellis, tamping pipeweed from his leather pouch into their pipes… Sam’s voice singing contentment in the garden, or bawdy pub ballads, or ancient lays to lilting tunes that he made himself… The curve of muscles flexing beneath a straining shirt or a sheen of sweat; hips narrow beneath that wide back… The brushing interchanges of daily life, all charged by secret dreams… A steadying hand, a wayward tendril tucked back, a clasp of friendship… and Sam’s expression, looking at Frodo in moments unguarded…   
  
And memories more recent: resting in sheltering arms, clinging to Sam for life and light, even as death and evil sought him… Lying loved in Sam’s arms, feeling his tentative touch; and wanting, needing, _inviting more…_ The comfort and the exquisite feel of Sam’s strong hand enclosing him, with all the security that love could provide…   
  
Frodo’s own hand followed that memory, and he laid his palm on his belly beneath the warm water, tracing fingertips along the path of Sam’s touch; lower, until he held, even as Sam had done. Fevered imagination carried him forward, to more of Sam’s touch, to all that they might now be to each other… His hips and firm heat rose seeking; his hand tightened, and in an instant he realised that his new-wakened desire would peak far too soon.   
  
_No, this is for Sam… Wait! We shall be together, soon…_  
  
Frodo released his hand, breathing hard, smoothed it up across his belly, and down his side to brace it on the ledge beneath the water. He opened his eyes, took a deep breath, and stood, trembling in the swirling chest-deep water. Holding to the side of the pool to steady himself, he shook droplets from his hair and ran fingers through the wet locks. As he caught his breath, he tried to ignore his body’s demands.   
  
He climbed the steps from the pool, and stooped to pluck a thick towel from the tall stack laid conveniently nearby. As he dried himself, he paced, to compose himself and calm his vivid imaginings.   
  
Frodo dropped the wet towel into a basket; the robe lay near, but he did not feel chilled in the warm room. _I do feel much better than when I woke._ He raised his arms, tentatively, over his head, clasping his hands together. _So far, so good._ Slowly he stretched out, arms extended higher and further back, shoulder blades together, his back arched, belly tight. _Oh, much better - that even feels good!_ He held the stretch, then lowered his arms and gripped his hands behind his hips, lifting up… _But that is merely manageable!_ And Frodo knew that certain lovely ideas he had recently imagined would have to wait until he had healed a little more. _Later! For we have now and later… But if I am careful, and put no weight on that side, then it will serve well enough for now…_   
  
He wrapped himself in a fresh towel, and, rubbing his hair with another, returned to the adjacent bedchamber. He closed and locked the door, and leaned against it, looking thoughtfully at the room, which now seemed almost comfortingly familiar. It was cleared of elves and all sign of the night’s ministrations. Gandalf, and Sam, too, were indeed gone, as he had expected. _Patience, for Sam will be back. Patience, Frodo!_  
  
Clean white bed linens were turned back invitingly. _Hmmm. They must have supposed I would rest… and that is the last thing I wish to do!_ A creamy silken nightshirt was laid ready for him on the bed. He picked it up, dropped the damp towels from his waist and for his hair by the bed, and went to the mirror, remembering the first time that he had noticed it, with a smile for the memory of Sam lying warm and golden beside him.   
  
He was even more naked now than then, unless one counted the greater amount of fabric in the shirt falling from the hand at his side, set against that revealing little drape. _It was a kind attempt to preserve some modesty -- although as long as I lay unconscious, there wouldn’t have been much of that left to me, anyway -- but it was totally ineffective! Well, Sam and I will laugh about it, now that this darkness has passed._  
  
Frodo looked curiously at his reflection in the mirror. _Oh, Sam! What do you see when you look at me? Something beyond what I see, I hope…_ A rueful, wry smile; unruly tangled hair, which he tried unsuccessfully to smooth back; lean muscle under flesh less rounded now than when he had left The Shire; skin still flushed from the heat of his bath; that cold white scar on his shoulder - and the Ring on its chain at his breast.   
  
Frodo shivered. He could see the effects of that burden on his drawn face, shadows still beneath his eyes and cheekbones. _Perhaps I could set it aside?_ He pulled the Ring away from his body and looked down at it lying heavy in his palm. _Such a different thing from the toy, the trinket Bilbo always believed it to be… and even knowing what I know, it is such a pretty thing lying there, so fair and golden..._ Frowning, he let it fall back against his breast, and his fingers slid beneath the chain to lift it off… and then he grimaced. _No, I must not – not yet. The Wise have kept it with me for some reason, and soon it will be gone, into their hands, to do with as they will… But its evil must not lie between Sam and me! And I will not think further on it now._ Frodo slid the Ring around on its chain and dropped it over his shoulder. It slithered coldly down his back, and the silver chain glinted across the hollow of his throat. _There. And I shall turn my thoughts to what joys lie ahead!_  
  
He continued his inspection. _Something pleases my Sam, or at least does not_ dis _please him!_ Wondering, Frodo shook his head and met his gaze frankly in the reflection. He knew that his eyes were often remarked, sometimes even directly, if unflatteringly, to his face: _“Such a strange colour for a hobbit, startling; distant, even!”_ He readily admitted that their colour was unusual, and knew that he often seemed, and often was, preoccupied; but beyond that, he could only see their familiarity. He held out his hands and looked at them critically. _Skilful enough with quill and ink, but hopeless with trowel or sword. But Sam’s skill in the garden more than makes up for my lack, and we shall need swords no more…_ He looked up and down his figure. Taller than some, and too thin even before all this. Not much there for cuddling, though Sam has held me dear these past days, next to his own smooth flesh…   
  
And so pale, even when I haven’t been ill; my very skin contradicts me and denies how much I love the sun! Not at all like Sam’s skin that looks to have soaked all the sun’s glow within, and those sleek muscles rounded with his strength… And soon I shall know the feel of him beneath these pale hands of mine. May they always give him joy - and perhaps they have learned something to share from that massage! </i>  
  
Frodo cast a last glance at his mirrored reflection. _Well, I am as I am, and that will be enough, if my body serves us well, so I may love my golden, sun-wreathed Sam as I wish, as he wants me…_ He closed his eyes for a moment, lost again in the anticipation of all he hoped to share… Heat flooded his cheeks and swelled in his loins, and he shivered at his immediate rising response. With a sigh, he shook out the shirt in his hand, and shrugged it on over damp curls, just as there came a soft knock at the door.   
  


* * *


	11. Beginning

  


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“Yes?”   
  
“It’s Sam, sir. May I come in?”   
  
_Oh, yes!_ Now that he was here, Frodo’s heart caught in his throat. He swallowed, and found his voice.   
  
“Yes, Sam. Please.” _My Sam…_   
  
Sam paused inside the door only long enough to slide a wrought leaf through its ornate latch on the frame; even elven privacy was kept elegantly. He turned, and for a moment, he could not breathe.   
  
There was Frodo, and he was beautiful. He stood in front of the mirror, his fair skin aglow in the golden afternoon light flowing through the arches. Soft rays shone through a silken shirt just now floating down past slender hips, silhouetting his lithe grace. And as he turned, arms outstretched to greet Sam, the diaphanous silk fluttered and caught, revealingly, at his loins. Frodo glanced down at himself, looked up to meet Sam’s eyes and loving smile, and laughed with joy at this new delight to share, as he pressed himself into strong, welcoming arms and an equally responsive body. And in that moment, any lingering question about intent or desire was completely answered.   
  
_“You’re here.”  
  
“Didn’t you know I would be?”   
  
“And I knew you were there, Sam…”   
  
“Always, Frodo, love.” _  
  
Frodo laid his head on Sam’s broad shoulder and Sam tucked his face into the lavender scented dampness of his hair, breathing deeply. He pulled Frodo close to feel healthy, living heat radiate through the silk. Frodo reached to cup Sam’s face between trembling palms, holding him, brow to brow, nose to nose as they leaned into each other, eyes closed, bodies pressed together, simply breathing life from each other’s breath. Then, his expression as serious as if translating the most momentous of tales, Frodo leaned back in Sam’s arms to study his face, as though for the very first time.   
  
Sam could feel the tremors coursing through Frodo’s entire body, but suppressed his own, holding utterly still beneath those slim hands. He sighed softly and closed his eyes, sensitive to Frodo’s every breath and touch as he smoothed brows and forehead, brushed eyelids and lashes; reading Sam’s love and desire, in feather light strokes.   
  
Frodo traced gently down the curve of Sam’s nose to its tip, then out to the upturned corners of smiling lips, and inward, with a shiver as Sam moved to catch his fingertips in a tentative, lingering kiss. Sighing, he pressed gently, learning soft lips beneath his touch, then let his hands brush ever downward along Sam’s jaw, past the hollow of his throat, to slide over the ridged collarbone and on, to the soft warm skin extending beneath his shirt. And his voice deepened with desire as he murmured, “My Sam…”   
  
The words freed Sam to touch his Frodo at last, and with a groan, he swept his hands down the silk-covered back and narrow waist, to spread them around the curve of his flanks and pull those slim hips close, tight against himself, heat against heat. And for a long moment, they stood, breathing hard, poised, their only movement the throb and pulse of heart and heat pressed joyfully together… until such pressure demanded more in slow circles drawn by knees and hips, spiralling ever more tightly upward and inward. Small gasps, inarticulate, infinitely eloquent, warmed and swirled the air as Frodo tilted his head, just enough… and soft lips opened to each other, tangling eagerly in a pattern that echoed desire’s flowing surge between them.   
  
Knowing – _feeling_ – Sam’s wish to be his own, Frodo dealt swiftly with buttons and braces, tugged cotton and silk away. Sighing his relief, he pressed his own lean belly and chest to Sam’s rounded strength, gripping his waist, wanting yet more… to give, to touch, to receive… Frodo’s slender hand slid down into the smooth gliding tightness between them, seeking… finding… Ahh! Deft fingers on fabric opened fevered heat to length, and Frodo gasped at the sudden blazing sensation as the touch and scent and heat of his Sam’s springing closeness, flesh to flesh, overwhelmed him completely. And though he had dreamed a slow slide to his knees for the most tender of caresses, all thought fled, and his own need took him.   
  
He clung tightly, twining one leg round Sam, as his body compelled an urgent primal rhythm that Sam met and matched, thrilled by his gentle Frodo’s wakened passion. Sam knew there was not time to lie together, and braced himself to support Frodo’s imminent pleasure, encouraging him with husky murmurs between panting kisses: “Frodo, love, yes… oh, my love!” Sam held him, one arm secure around his waist… and with the other, he reached down, between them, to find him, touch him, enfold them together… And the moment Sam’s warm hand encircled him, Frodo cried out and thrust, hard, releasing into Sam’s loving embrace.   
  
Frodo’s knees buckled, and he slumped against Sam. Sam caught him and lifted him, shuddering at the exquisite sensation of Frodo’s groin naked against his own as he wrapped his legs around Sam’s hips.   
  
Frodo sighed breathlessly against his lips, “Sam, I love you! I wanted you… _this…_ so much! Oh, my love… I never knew…” He shifted in Sam’s arms to caress his face with shaking fingertips. “This is just our beginning…” His voice faded and he rested his head on Sam’s shoulder.   
  
That sweet pressure at his groin was almost enough for Sam to find his own release, but for his fear that they would both collapse to the hard floor, that his Frodo might be hurt. Breathing hard, he pressed a tender kiss to Frodo’s brow as he sagged against his chest, all his fragile recovery completely exhausted now. With a few steps, he moved them to the safety of the bed. “Oh, Frodo! Here, love… rest a bit…”   
  
Frodo’s weakened arm, clinging to Sam’s shoulder, gave out as Sam laid him down on the soft pillows, and he winced as Sam caught him from falling the last little distance. But he smiled at Sam’s worried expression, and caught his hand to pull him down onto the bed beside him.   
  
“Come here, love…”   
  
_Oh… Frodo, I want you so much, and you’ll want to be loving me, but, oh, my love…_ The sight of Frodo, slumped so pale against these white pillows, reminded Sam painfully that only a few grim hours before, his Frodo had lain right here in his arms, on this same bed, weakened from long suffering… _dying…_ He remembered too well the terrible throes of that last agonized resistance, so different from the joyful surrender he had just held, and his mind reeled at the contrast. _I almost lost him… I cannot bear to lose him… not then, not now, not ever…_   
  
Sam’s heart twisted with fear and relief. A sudden, fierce protectiveness surged through him, far greater than his own still burning desire, and he restrained himself from even the slight touch it would take for his own release, in concern for Frodo’s well-being. “Oh, my love!” he murmured, and gathered Frodo to him, burying his face in the soft skin above his collarbone, feeling his heart pounding hard and fast against his breast, his breath, still rough with passion, gusting sweetly past Sam’s ear. He hugged as tightly as he dared, thanking all the powers that this precious life had been spared to him.   
  
“I was so afraid for you, through all those days. And last night…” Sam closed his eyes, breathing deeply the warm, living scent of Frodo, and pressed a kiss to the sturdy pulse, so reassuring at his throat. “I couldn’t bear for our loving to set you back!” And the tears came, despite his happiness.   
  
“I’m all right now, Samwise, just a little tired… Don’t cry, love…” Frodo murmured. He lay back, draped in Sam’s arms, to look at Sam with concern. He gently wiped his tears, then smoothed his hand soothingly along Sam’s shoulder. “Sam, I feel wonderful! How could I not after that? And I want you to, as well. I want to give _you_ such pleasure…” He smiled, and his hand played through Sam’s curls, bringing him close for a kiss; soft lips opened to the gentle caress of tongues, the slightest click of white teeth together as the kiss deepened.   
  
Sam moaned as Frodo’s arms wrapped round him and his slim body shifted closer. _Oh, with just the lightest touch…_ But Sam’s memory of the bleak night before was too fresh, and his love too caring, to accept any risk at all for his Frodo; he closed his eyes, bit his lip, and pulled back from such tempting persuasion. As Frodo tried to reach between them, Sam took a deep breath, catching Frodo’s hand to twine their fingers, and bring it to his own lips, to kiss from delicate knuckles to fingertips, slowly and lovingly.   
  
“Sam?”   
  
Sam looked up from their hands to Frodo’s face and quizzical frown. “Frodo, you’re just the _givingest_ hobbit I’ve ever known, but you _need_ rest now. I can wait a little longer.” Denial flashed in Frodo’s eyes as he shook his head stubbornly and smiled; Sam countered before he could speak. Pushing back the curls from Frodo’s ear, he whispered, his voice husky with restrained desire, “In good time, love, and all the better for you resting a bit!” Frodo’s quick intake of breath and the warmth of his eyes were almost too much for Sam to wait any longer, but… “We’ll love again, soon. _‘Just the beginning’_ , remember?”   
  
“Sam, I love you!” Frodo brushed soft lips across Sam’s cheek, ruefully aware that even leaning forward for this sweet kiss tired him. “Not least for your patience. Oh, Sam, I won’t always be this tired… And I have imagined so much with you, and _for_ you!”   
  
“No one knows better’n me how strong you are, love, and you will be again. And I can hardly wait for whatever you’ve dreamed up! But we will wait, ‘til you’ve rested…”   
  
Frodo nodded, sighed, and settled reluctantly back into the pillows, his body limp with fatigue. Sam pressed his fingertips to the curve of his lips; Frodo caught his hand, and bit his fingertip lightly, teasingly, then added a tender kiss.  
  
“And, we _have_ time, now. So you just lie back a while, my Frodo, and see if you can enjoy a bit of good hobbit care.”   
  
“Yes, we do have time, now. And I have just enjoyed the very best hobbit care, more than you know – yet! But soon, love, you’ll come to enjoy it, too…” Frodo’s eyes widened at his words’ inadvertent meaning. _‘come to enjoy…’ coming… Oh, my! Did I say that? Well, it is what I want and the only thing I’ve thought of these last hours! Oh, Sam!_ Heat flushed Frodo’s face and chest. Blushing at the boldness of actually speaking of their loving, he met Sam’s gaze and saw that colour rose on his face, too. With a smile that was almost shy, he added, “I hope you will soon, love – I want that for you.”   
“I’m sure I will… do… _just_ that, and, oh, Frodo, that’ll be right out of my dreams!” Sam’s voice was hoarse. _In all my dreams, I never thought we’d be talking of loving… Oh, don’t you think on it too much now! Let him rest!_  
  
Overcome by the promise of what had been only a secret dream, Sam took Frodo’s hand tenderly into his own, and bent a kiss to his palm. He shivered at the recent memory of his whole-hearted response in his arms, and closed his eyes for a moment. There were passionate depths to his gentle master that awed him. _That’s truly Frodo, isn’t it? So reserved and thoughtful and quiet most of the time, but once the decision’s made, he gives his all, whether to loving or whatever he’s set himself to… Come to think, I’ve never known a more strong-willed hobbit, and that’s why he survived... Just you take good care of him, Samwise, now he’s come through it all. He’s given himself into your hands and your trust in every way…_  
  
Sam opened his eyes and looked up from Frodo’s hand, to meet his eyes, bright with unshed tears, his lips curved in the softest smile around a whispered, “Sam…” And Frodo brought his hand palm to palm with Sam’s and laced their fingers together.  
  
“Yes, love… so much we will share… and maybe even _talk_ on, together…” Sam smiled and leaned a quick kiss to those parted lips. “But, until then, a little plain old ‘ _good_ ’ hobbit care may not be quite as much fun as ‘the best’, but that’s just what you need right now.” The looks they exchanged were filled with joyful intent, and awareness that patience was needed, for a while.  
  
Sam squeezed his hand and laid it across his chest. He bent down to gather the drier of the towels Frodo had dropped by the bed, and put it to good service, gently wiping Frodo’s belly and loins, and his own, carefully. And at his slightest nudge, Frodo shifted cooperatively, watching his every movement, keeping his hand always on his golden hair, or sinewy arm, or strong back. Then Sam dropped the towel on the floor, and took his time settling Frodo with soothing strokes, running his hands over muscled thighs and taut belly, up to the hem of the loose nightshirt spilling across his chest to puddle at his waist. Sam straightened the silk to lie unwrinkled beneath his hips, and with a last tender touch and a sigh from both of them, pulled it down to skim over smooth loins and nesting curls.   
  
_He’s so warm, now, and even smoother than before, with the oil. Is that sage, and a trace of rose under the lavender? Very nice! Oh, let my touch heal him, too! All these past days, holding him, all I wanted was for him to live. Now, the both of us want so much else, what with this living fire burning between us, and touching him is a whole different thing. Every touch I’ve ever given him was from my love for him, even when our making love was never a part of it… But it is and will be! And Sam… you’d best leave off touching him for you’ll not stand much more of this!_ As Frodo shifted and settled back into the pillows, submitting to Sam’s gentle insistence, the loose silver chain at his neck glinted across his pale throat, slithering behind his shoulder and beneath silk. The shirt had a definite appeal, and Frodo was too lovely for words… but that thing? A chill passed through him at the thought of its evil caress on his Frodo’s sweet flesh. Perhaps he could lay it aside, if only for a while? Sam caught his eyes, and gestured toward the chain with an inquiring look. “Frodo, love…?”   
  
He regretted the scarcely formed question as Frodo became completely still beneath his hands. _Sam, you fool! He’d forgotten about it and now you’ve gone and reminded him! What kind of rest is that?_  
  
Frodo took a deep breath. He touched his fingers lightly to the chain, but let it drop rather than pull the Ring around from where it lay hidden at his back, its exact location burning against his skin. He did not want it brought forth between them, especially now. Sam saw his jaw tense with resolve as he looked up to meet his eyes; he shook his head slowly, and said, “No, Sam, it is my burden to bear, until it is taken from me. I hope soon…” _But I will not let it touch you. I could not bear for you to know its call…_ He gave Sam a sad little smile.   
  
Sam nodded, and kissed him with understanding, for this was also Frodo’s strong will, to carry it through. _Oh, why’d I have to mention that and worry him?_   
  
“Oh, love, I’m sorry I said anything about it! You’ve already done and given so much, just to get it this far. And it will only be a little longer ‘til it’s gone. This is _our_ time, now, and we won’t pay it any mind. Just rest you there, and let your Sam tend you.” _Turn his mind from that thing, back to resting._ He ran his hand lightly from his shoulder, down the silk covered breast, to rub soothing circles on that lean belly. “You are enjoying, aren’t you, love?”   
  
“Oh, yes! Oh, Sam, that’s… oh…”   
  
Frodo’s sigh, the tightening of his hand on Sam’s arm, and his languid stretching took them both beyond any thought of burdens past or present. But they exchanged a look, realising that much more of such touching would not _soothe_ either of them. And Sam could see that exhausted as he was, his desire to bring pleasure to Sam would soon be the only thing on his mind.   
  
“Frodo, love, just you lie back for more – and rest!” Sam gathered his senses and his self-control, with a deep breath. He resumed a calmer, more languorous stroking that didn’t invite such potent reactions from either of them. _Hmmm… thighs, no, later… There, it’s all right on his shins, and these sturdy feet of his. They’ve taken him places neither of us ever thought to see, and they deserve a good rub down. There’s not a place on him that doesn’t delight me, but surely I can just rub his feet!_  
  
He shifted downwards on the bed and took Frodo’s foot in his lap. He massaged each joint of his toes and the smooth turn of his ankle, and brushed fingers through the silky hair feathered across the top. _Good, you and he can both stand this, and it might even help. A little rest, and a lot of love, and he’ll be right as rain. Just get him home, where there’s nothing more to hurt him, ever…_ Relieved that he had found a more relaxing way to touch and care for his Frodo, he looked up, smiling, and his breath caught.   
  
There was calm in the darkness of Frodo’s eyes as he watched Sam, such love in the soft curve of his smile and, now, a promise of returning health in the faint blush to his cheeks. _Don’t matter whether it’s his feet or those eyes, he’s just plain beautiful through and through, and there isn’t any bit of him anywhere, toenail to ear tip, that I don’t love… and the wonder of it is, is that he loves me the same. But Samwise, you’d better just tend his feet for now!_  
  
He restrained his imagination and tried to focus only on Frodo’s foot, asking with raised brow, his tone mild and his smile fond, “Nice, love?”   
  
Frodo flexed his foot contentedly, wiggled his toes, and murmured, “Oh, yes! That feels so good! I didn’t know feet _could_ feel so nice. Thank you…” He sighed and closed his eyes, savouring the heavy feel of his limbs, this sweet weariness from loving, and Sam’s hands laid so tenderly upon him. _Ah, Sam, you bring life to me even tired as I am. How could I have thought that your touch would be in the least like the elves’? Your hands feel so much better… My Sam…_   
  
With a final gentle squeeze, Sam laid the foot on the bed to turn his attentions to the other. The soft voice had faded, and the gentle hand was no longer caressing him; it lay, palm up and fingers curled, on the bed by his hip. A glance at Frodo’s peaceful face assured Sam that he had finally fallen asleep. Sam cradled his foot on his lap, and let himself simply gaze on the slumbering form, graceful even in sleep, skin flushed, and limbs languid in the aftermath of love. And Sam brushed at the tears that welled with his joy.   
  
_My Frodo, all these years, I’ve seen you ‘bout every way, even held you near naked these last days… but I scarcely dared dream of seeing you like this. I love just looking at you, and being here beside you, and knowing that soon…_ Sam sighed softly and shifted a bit; yes, ‘soon’ would be good… _Best turn your thoughts, Sam, or you’ll be waking him._   
  
Sam patted his hand lightly; it was completely relaxed, but cooler than Sam would have liked. He looked for blankets, but Frodo was lying across them, so he shrugged off his opened shirt and waistcoat, sighing as he was reminded of their deft unbuttoning earlier, and tucked them, still warm from his own body, around him. He thought to shed his remaining clothes, trousers already undone and pushed well aside during Frodo’s eager caresses, but he could not bear to leave his side or disturb his sleep. Instead, he cuddled next to him, slipping one arm beneath his shoulders, and sliding his hand beneath the silky nightshirt, to rest warmly over the steady heartbeat, so close to the wound that had almost taken Frodo from him. _Set it aside now, Sam. Let it be, and know that he lies safe in your arms, pleasured by your hands… Oh, my love…_  
  
Sam lay quietly, finding his own peace simply from watching Frodo sleep. All sign of his suffering had faded, even the bruised look about his eyes, and he looked well, once more, for the first time in far too long.   
  
_He is the better for our loving. It was good for him, and so is this sweet sleep. Calm yourself, Sam… patience…_ Sam pressed Frodo to him, lightly, sighing softly with suppressed desire, but knowing that the tender ache would at last subside, and his own much-needed sleep would come. _It has been a long watch, Sam. Rest, for he’ll wake soon enough, and he’ll not want you sleeping then!_ He smiled drowsily at the thought, and in deep contentment, he snuggled closer into Frodo’s warmth.   
  
_Soon…_   
  


* * *


	12. Song (Epithalamion)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illustration (R for nudity)

  
[](http://photobucket.com)

(Epithalamion)

  
  
A playful nibble to his brow, warm breath washing over his cheek to the corner of his mouth… soft lips brushing his, whispering… "Sam?"   
  
_Frodo, love, this is far too nice to let pass quickly!_ He kept his eyes closed, feigning sleep.   
  
"Sam…?" A more insistent breath against his lips, and a nimble hand slid across his bare chest, fingertips circling his nipple…   
  
"Mmm…" _Oh! Yes, love, wake me, just like you’re doing…oh, my, yes… there!_ He dared a small snore, but could not keep from sighing as every part of him roused.   
  
"Sam, love?" Amusement lilting in his tone, and those fingertips tickling, lightly, ever lower…   
  
"Mmmph?" _Oh, my! I knew those hands were talented! No hiding that I’m well and truly awake, now!_ "Frodo?" Sam could not quite keep his delight from his voice, nor the smile from his lips.   
  
"Who else?" A sharp little nip, an apologetic nibble; then warm lips kissed through a husky laugh, and left him.   
  
Sam opened his eyes.   
  
And Frodo was right there, mere inches from his face, eyes locked with Sam’s. His lips crinkled with barely contained laughter, his cheeks were rosy with rest and good humour, and his eyes were bright with love, warm with desire. Sam’s breath caught in his throat and his heart sang as he wrapped his arms around smooth silk and sinuous muscle. _Alive, alive! You’re here in my arms, my love, alive!_  
  
"Oh, Frodo, you’re the loveliest thing…"   
  
"As are you!" A slow burning smile, another quick kiss, and a nuzzle, the tip of his straight nose cool against Sam’s upturned one. "Sam, let me just look at you!" His brows furrowed and lips parted with the intensity of his scrutiny, as he laid gentle fingertips to Sam’s face.   
  
Sam lay still beneath his touch, smiling at his quizzical expression. "It’s different, isn’t it, love, seeing each other like this? I couldn’t look on you enough, before, even while you slept! Or now, either!"   
  
"Yes, it is... Oh, Sam, I have dreamed this…" His eyes left Sam’s and followed as his hand trailed slowly past Sam’s jaw, softly over the pulse beating hard in his throat, gently curving across his breast. And Sam could see that his gaze dropped even lower, past belly, and waist, to what swelled, pushing hard, beneath his loosened trousers. Frodo’s breathing became faster, and his bright eyes less focused, as he voiced raw desire, low and deep.   
  
" _My_ Sam… I want…"   
  
Again, he sought Sam’s lips, and his kisses were no longer light and teasing, but hard now, and probing. With strength that surprised Sam, Frodo kissed him back into the pillows as he tried to lift and meet frantic hunger with fervent kisses returned, eyes closed, surrendering to the pleasure of Frodo’s urgent touch. Deft fingers brushed through light fur, kneading skin rounded over hard muscle on Sam’s belly, and further down to slip smoothly between folds of fabric lying open over his groin… With no hesitation at all, Frodo claimed Sam, slid his hand down to cup tender flesh nestled below… stroked back up…   
  
Sam gasped. _Ah… Oh, all for you, my love!_  
  
Panting now, Frodo inhaled Sam’s gasp with small throaty sounds of his own. He pushed hard, and again, into Sam’s hip, his face buried at Sam’s neck, clinging as tightly as though for his life.   
  
_Mine! My own!_ Frodo’s entire body tensed, and beat erratic rhythm against Sam. He raised himself, and reached across Sam, starting to move over and on, heedless as his shoulder took weight it should not bear, his breath harsh… wanting, _taking…_ And icy metal slid around from his back and over his breast, to fall against Sam’s warm chest, a thin film of silk his only shield…   
  
Frodo groaned, a sound almost of pain, wrenched through with desire. And in a rustle of fabric, he was gone.  
  
 _What? I knew you’d have ideas of your own… but what’s this?_ "Frodo, love! You just… might be a bit of a tease!" And Sam’s eyes flew open as he reached eagerly for Frodo.   
  


[ ](http://photobucket.com)

  
  
He had shoved back, and was huddled against the pillows, panting, hands twisting to pull the chain at his throat around to his back. He drew a deep breath, as of reprieve, and his eyes were wide as they met Sam’s.   
  
Breathless himself, Sam saw distress lining his face, clawing his shaking hands; play was no part of that abrupt departure. _Something is very wrong…_ Sam pushed down his own panic, reached for his hand, and turned it over to kiss his palm. "Frodo? What is it, love?"   
  
"Sam…" In that one word, a plea for understanding. But even though Frodo touched his fingertips gently to Sam’s lips, lingering for his kiss, he stayed amongst the pillows, breathing so hard he could not speak. After a moment, he let his head fall back against the headboard, frowning, his eyes closed, as he tried to slow his rasping breath. He held tightly to Sam’s hand, letting his warmth penetrate the icy fear that clutched within his breast.   
  
Sam stilled, waiting – wanting most to take him into his arms, but knowing that patience was needed even more. _Samwise, you give him time to get his bearings! He’ll talk, soon as he’s ready… soon as he can. You just listen, and give him what ever else he needs or wants after that!_ He held Frodo’s hand to his lips, rubbing his thumb and fingers, soothingly, over the fine veins at his wrist. Gradually, the racing pulse slowed, the furrow between dark brows smoothed, and the creases from his nose to the corners of his lips relaxed.   
  
Frodo opened his eyes to meet Sam’s. He spoke with some difficulty. "Sam… I wouldn’t ‘tease’, ever, not like that…"   
  
"Shhhh, love… of course not…"   
  
"But… it – _I_ – was going so fast, there was going to be no ‘taking time’. Instead, it was all me ‘ _taking_ ’, not _giving_ … And I couldn’t bear that! I want so much for us, for _you…_ " He caught his breath, and added, his voice low and urgent, "And I was afraid, Sam. The Ring… How can I tell you?" He leaned forward, and laid his hand on Sam’s cheek in the gentlest of caresses. "Sam, love… I feel it always… But when we were together, earlier, I felt only _you_. And it does not want that! It tries to be there, with me and between us – and I could not stand for it to touch you!"   
  
"No more would I want it to! But you… I hate it that you must be the one to bear it, Frodo – and to bear what I’ve seen it do to you. But it will be gone soon, and you will be free of it." Sam took his hand from his cheek, and kissed his palm, comforting him with words until he could again comfort him with his body. "And, setting that thing aside, it’s hard enough for you, waking from – from where you’ve been, to so much that’s new, and everything flitting by so fast, it’d make anyone dizzy!"   
  
Frodo’s grip on Sam’s hand tightened. "It _is_ hard, Sam… But _you_ bring me back. Now, and then, when you held me close through my worst nightmare… through more than you should ever have had to bear…" He was silent for a moment and when he spoke again, Sam was unsure whether he was meant to hear, so soft were the words. "Even this _needing_ , wanting you so much, almost overwhelms me… so much, so fast, so intense… even this, even our loving…" Then he looked up, his face anguished. "Oh, Sam! I want to take _time_ , now we have it! Not just _take_ from you! I need to give, to please _you_ –"   
  
Sam broke into his rushing words with truth, his voice rough with compassion, and so very tender. _"Please_ me? Oh, Frodo! Nothing you could do, fast or slow, ‘taking time’ or no, that would not please me! Your need _is_ my need, love! And you can _have_ me, any way, any time you want me! And if you need me hard and fast, Frodo Baggins, you just come right here to your Sam!"   
  
And then Frodo was back, a warm silken bundle covering Sam’s chest and face. He flung his arms around Sam; his kiss was tender and quick, his voice husky, and his words as sweet as his kisses.   
  
"I – I know. And so am I _yours_ , for any need or want of me, _ever_! And, as for ‘hard and fast’– oh, Sam!" He hugged Sam tightly, wrapped securely in his arms, and the tension melted away as Sam held him close, kissing his hair and brow.   
  
Then, lithe and relaxed once more, breathing blended smoothly with Sam’s, he lifted his face, lit now by a blush and a grin. Strain had dissolved into tiny smile lines at the corners of his lips and eyes, and his eyes were sparkling.   
  
"‘Hard and fast’, Sam? Oh, yes! We _will_ do that! But for now, love, we’ll ‘take time’ for _your_ pleasure, for both of us, and I’ll try to not be _totally_ undone by your first touch, as I was before!"   
  
" _That_ – you ‘undone’… that _was_ my pleasure!"   
  
"And mine!" Smiling, Frodo hushed Sam’s protest with a slim finger to his lips. "And I know you didn’t mind it! But, you must let me take care of you, too!"   
  
"Well, now, I can’t say as I would mind _that_ , either…" Sam’s eyes twinkled and his laugh was throaty as heat rose pink in his cheeks. "Any time, love!"   
  
Frodo laughed, kissed him, and pushed back from his embrace to curl before him, looking appreciatively at Sam, and past him, at his reflection in the mirror. The bright waves of his flaxen hair rippled in the afternoon light, his well-muscled back was flexed and bare, and his hips were still wrapped loosely in rough wool; hair and skin and trousers all blended in rich, warm shades of gold, dark against the sheets. _So alive and healthy, and all that rounded strength serving the gentlest heart in the world. Oh, Sam!_ He grasped Sam’s shoulder, his eyes dancing, "I will take care of you, my love, but first… Look!"   
  
Sam twisted, following his gaze to their reflection. "What?"   
  
"Look at yourself, Sam, and see as I see. You are beautiful!"   
  
"Well, I don’t know as I’d say ‘beautiful’, but as long as you think so…"   
  
"I do. And isn’t it about time we were _both_ bared to that mirror? You’re still wearing too much!" Suddenly Frodo laughed; Sam raised an eyebrow in question. "Far too much, though less than when _I_ last saw us reflected! You had all your clothes then, and I was… well, there _was_ that silly strip of silk…"   
  
"Frodo! I _liked_ that silk! Showed a good sight more’n what it hid!" Laughing, and deliciously aware of exactly _what_ had been shown, Sam shifted and rolled to the edge of the bed, adding, "That old mirror _has_ seen a good bit of you – and the very best bits, at that!"   
  
He stood, pushed wool and linen down and away, and straightened before the mirror. He saw sturdy limbs and sun browned skin, pale below his waistband – and below that, ready and eager… All so familiar, except he had not ever seen himself _mirrored_ in this state, any more than had his Frodo. His breath quickened at the reflection of Frodo, partially hidden behind him, sitting back against the pillows, regarding him with intent awareness. And he smiled with such warmth as he looked up to meet Sam’s eyes in the mirror…   
  
_Oh, Frodo! Life just bursts from you, now you’re awake and happy. I do love your sweet body, and that look tells me you just might like mine, too! But it’s always been that bright spirit shining in you, that makes for all my wanting…_ He pivoted back toward the bed the better to see Frodo himself.   
  
Where Sam was all shades and tones, Frodo was all contrasts: dark brows and indigo eyes against fair, fair skin; russet-black tendrils brushing creamy silk, as it slipped off one lean shoulder. He had pushed Sam’s shirt aside, and his nightshirt had ridden up, so that nothing lay now across his knee canted in the air, that firm muscular thigh, nor over slim flanks and curved hipbones framing dark curls swirled round… His desire was clear, and his invitation unmistakable.   
  
Sam gasped and grabbed the side of the bed. "Oh! Everything went so fast for us before, I didn’t ever see _you…_ not like this! He looked up slowly from Frodo’s body to his smiling face, to meet eyes shining with love. He was clearly aware of his effect, and definitely enjoying Sam’s noticeable pleasure. And then, his expression somehow both heated and mischievous, he lifted one brow, a crooked little smile playing on soft lips.   
  
"Frodo, I know that look, though maybe not _quite_ like that! You’re up to something – well up, I might say!" he added with a grin.   
  
Frodo sat forward amongst the pillows and gathered the shirt from where it pooled at his waist. Catching Sam’s eyes, he started a slow, sultry shimmer of silk upwards over his belly and waist and chest, watching Sam’s obvious interest and reaction. But after only a few enticing moments, he burst forth laughing in frank happiness.   
  
"Oh, Sam, I simply don’t have patience for this! Later, if you would like, but for now, please come here!" He tugged the shirt up and overhead to toss it away, but in that sudden movement, the gathered fabric became entangled with his wounded shoulder. He hissed with shooting pain, froze, and growled his frustration. "Bother! Sam?"   
  
"Here, let me help…" Sam clambered quickly across the bed and pushed himself to his knees before Frodo to see where and how he was caught. "Are you hurt, love?"   
  
"No, it’s all right now. I’m just tangled… Can you…?" His muffled voice was reassuring as he wriggled his arm where it was trapped in the bunched folds of silk.   
  
"Right here, love. Maybe I could help with that…?" Sam laid his hands over the firm swell of muscle across Frodo’s chest, lightly circled the flat brown nipples, stroking upwards to the draping hem, enjoying a small slow tease of his own, well rewarded by Frodo’s quick inhalation and sigh.   
  
"Oh, a _much_ better way to remove a shirt, Sam!"   
  
"I thought you might like it!" Only then, careful of the hurt shoulder, did Sam gather up the silk, lifting the tangle past the warm, dark tufts beneath supple upraised arms, sliding it off over outstretched hands with a sigh of appreciation.   
  
"Ahh… Frodo… plenty nice _in_ silk… but so much better _out_ of it…"   
  
He looked down, smiling, into Frodo’s upturned face, so close to his own belly as he leaned to free him from the shirt, and suddenly he realised, for the first time, how _very_ close Frodo was. His eyes were warm with love, his fair skin flushed, his breathing fast through parted lips… and Sam’s own body was ruddy, heated, swollen … and so near to touching his Frodo, right _there…_ And Sam faltered and blushed.   
  
"Frodo…" He started to pull away, but Frodo caught him with one palm spread, curved round the back of his thigh, the other gently beseeching on his chest.   
  
"Samwise. I’d like… won’t you let me?" His voice was suddenly hoarse, and his gaze was no longer on Sam’s face, but rapt upon his body. And though Sam could not see the blue of his eyes through downcast lashes, his expression was as intent as Sam had ever seen. "Oh, Sam! So beautiful!"   
  
Sam could feel Frodo’s hands trembling, his voice whispering soft breath over sensitive flesh. "I want this, _you,_ so much…" He looked up, brilliant eyes meeting Sam’s, seeking consent for what he wanted to give.   
  
And Sam could only nod, mutely, and lay his hand on Frodo’s head in wonder, twining his fingers through the tumbled curls, unable to look away from his eyes, unable to move at all. _Frodo… Oh, love, I may not survive this!_ The silken nightshirt dropped to the bed from his hand, as all sensation rushed to one part only. He braced himself against the headboard as heat rippled from his groin outward at the very thought of the sweet kiss… of those soft lips… that dark head bent to… _Ohh…_  
  
Frodo released the breath he had held, and its moist heat raised quivering chills on Sam’s belly. His nimble fingers teased downward, to loins drawn tight with anticipation, threading through the dark gold tangle that nestled round the heat straining before him. And then he smiled, so sweetly, closed his eyes, and bent to lay his cheek against the rounded belly before him. Sam sighed at the sight and feathered tickle of shining curls, drifting over his skin.   
  
Frodo slid his hand smoothly along Sam’s thigh, pulling him closer, then turned his face to kiss… He pressed warm lips, murmuring love, against yearning flesh, pulled sensitive skin taut, humming, tasting… slipped his hand around Sam’s flank, over cheeks tensed to keep from thrusting, and explored, reaching between… Sam gasped and Frodo turned to glance up, making sure it was pleasure he heard, seeing Sam’s head thrown back, eyes closed, lips parted.   
  
"Sam… oh, my love…" Frodo took a deep breath, readying for what he wanted to do and had never done, for that joy with his Sam that he had glimpsed, that he wished to give… and he leaned to take Sam as deeply as ever he had dreamed.   
  
"Frodo! Ohhh…" Sam’s groan was answered by a deeply vibrating _"Mmm…_ " hummed on flesh tuned to highest pitch. His hand hovered over the dark curls bent to him, then tangled through, to cradle his head lightly, as it rose and fell… And Sam gave himself completely to Frodo’s loving and his own longing, so long delayed.   
  
In all the world, there was only Frodo, his lips and tongue, so fluent round elvish words, flowing mellifluous upon him… And then Frodo shifted, commanded by his own flaring desire, and his teeth scraped accidentally, exquisitely, along Sam’s length. Between one heartbeat and the next, Sam saw blindingly his Frodo’s radiant smile, heard his joyful laughter… and all that he had known before of beloved master, scholar, friend, merged into this: his lips, his life, his love, here and now in an instant beyond dreams.   
  
And though he tried to pull back, as he relinquished control so joyfully to Frodo’s measure, Frodo caught him even closer, humming his own insistent need, to receive Sam’s shuddering release, taking, swallowing… And then Frodo was coughing, just a little, and he looked up with an expression of such wonder that Sam’s heart swelled with tenderness as tears traced down both their faces.   
  
"Frodo…"   
  
"Oh, Sam! Hold me…"   
  
Sam slipped from his knees to gather Frodo close, and, mindful still of the need to protect his shoulder, laid him gently onto the bed, following him with kisses. Their lips blended rose and honey, salt tears and Sam’s own sweet musk, murmuring _Sam_ and _Frodo,_ the names alone a quiet paean of happiness between them. Wondering fingertips smoothed tear tracks from each other’s cheeks, and they lay side by side, twined together.   
  
As Frodo rubbed soothing circles on his back and shoulders, Sam’s tremors subsided and the haze from loving began to clear. He reached down to tangled curls, still moist from Frodo’s earlier pleasure and his own tender care, nestling heat… and found that desire burned there yet, a flame banked patiently between them.   
  
"Oh, love! You were so close just then, and you didn’t… I thought… Here, love…" And Sam slipped his arm from beneath Frodo and started to slide lower, tracing kisses down his throat, wanting to bring lips and hands to Frodo’s need. But Frodo stayed him with a gentle touch to his face.   
  
"Sam, wait." As Sam looked up enquiringly, his hand still moving, Frodo continued, rather breathlessly, "It was wonderful, and just as I wanted. I needed to give _you_ pleasure!" _And I had to know that the Ring was not there with me, with us – that it was no part of my loving you… I had to know that I could keep it from you!_  
"But, pleasing you is part of my pleasure, love." Sam saw something – _Worry? Fear?_ – flicker on Frodo’s face, and then it was gone, replaced with open longing.   
  
"Sam… You did! I loved feeling you… as… as you loved what I was doing. You’re so alive there, your hands, lips, everything about you. You quicken all you touch – garden, song – you’ve even brought me back to life!" Frodo hugged him close, then pulled back to meet Sam’s eyes. This time, he did not blush as he chose careful words from love’s new lyric, his voice hesitant but very warm. "But… there is something else I want for us now. Sam, I want to lie with you, to… to feel you lying _on_ me…" Suddenly shy, he added, very softly, "And I want us to… _come…_ again. Together."   
  
"Oh, love! I want that, too! And often!" Desire for his Frodo, never far from the surface, flared afresh in Sam, and with a new daring, he took Frodo’s hand, guiding and placing it over his own groin. "Here, love. Feel. Soon… Oh! Sooner, if you keep doing that!"   
  
"Yes! I feel… and that’s just what I shall do!" Frodo laughed softly and wriggled even closer. He sank back into Sam’s arms, nuzzling dark curls into his shoulder, and set himself to fan desire into ardent flame, inspired by a fine imagination, and memory of his own hands upon himself, of the greater pleasure of Sam’s upon him, known now as never before.   
  
"Just lie back, love, and don’t stop…" Sam smiled, and closed his eyes a moment, with a hum of contentment. "Mmm… You do that… and I’ll do this… and we’ll be together real soon." And he moved to caress Frodo where fire burned less intensely, soothing inflamed flesh, nurturing slow, enduring desire; seeing, with wonder, as from a dream, his own sun-brown hands laid with love on fair skin that rippled with pleasure beneath his touch. His hand traced upwards from Frodo’s groin as his lips trailed kisses downwards from throat and collarbone to meet at Frodo’s breast, lips and fingertips meeting at one rosy nipple, puckering over a soft note of delight vibrating from deep within.  
  
But worry struck Sam afresh; the stark white scar so close to pleasured flesh recalled the terrible, chill mist and Frodo’s suffering. He kissed Frodo’s breast and raised up to touch the wound very lightly, in blessing; it was still not as warm as the rest of Frodo’s heated skin. Quietly, he asked, "Frodo, love, would – would it hurt… for me to lie on you? I couldn’t bear that…"   
  
"Oh, no, Sam! Not when you are so gentle with me." Frodo smiled reassuringly. Then, seeing the continued concern in Sam’s face, he added, "I want that, want you! Yes, my shoulder does hurt a little, and won’t support me, so perhaps our ‘hard and fast’ must wait… But, Sam, I _can_ still do this!" He shifted quickly and rolled onto his back, pulling a surprised, but pliant, Sam across his right side. He laced his fingers through Sam’s curls, gently bringing their lips together, kissing him deeply, completely open to everything Sam might ever want or need of him.   
  
With kisses and smiles, they explored anew lips and teeth and tangling tongues, well known before from laughter, word, and song… And Sam now knew what else those sweet lips could do and had done… and a groan rose from deep in his throat. Desire mingled with tender care for Frodo’s wounded shoulder; he held his own weight on one elbow as he pulled back from their long kiss. With a look into eyes dark with arousal, he confirmed that Frodo’s need was for his Sam, _now_. And Sam was more than ready.   
  
"Sam…" Frodo opened his eyes to meet Sam’s, filled with love and wanting. He laid one hand along Sam’s face, slid the other down to encircle Sam, where renewed desire rose now as fervent as his own. His voice deepened, its timbre resonating from his very being, the lyric in his heart melded with desire’s thrumming song.   
  
_"My Sam. I love you. I will always love you, with everything I am. You are my home, and all that I have or might have is for you."  
  
"Oh, love, I am yours! I always have been, and always will be. I love you so much, Frodo… You are everything I ever wanted or ever will."_   
  
Sam pressed soft lips to Frodo’s, sealing a promise that had sung in his heart for as long as he could remember. He took Frodo gently in hand, and pushed himself hard into Frodo’s embrace, completing the circle: hands to desire, lips to lips, pledge to vow.  
  
So they lay, bound by enduring love and hope’s promise, far beyond nightmare and pain and loss, trusting that all that needed saying had been said, and all else could yet be in time forever fluent before them. Holding just so, they looked wonderingly into each other’s face, seeing more truly now than ever before in life. In Frodo’s, so familiar and yet so changed by all he had endured, by this wanting and needing and giving, Sam saw his love reflected back to him from eyes as clear as the heavens themselves, and a blazing joy arose within him. And to Frodo, it seemed that in Sam’s warm hazel eyes, the brown and green of tree and leaf, flecked gold by sun’s life-giving ray, he saw the generous bounty of the stable earth, the beauty of a garden’s every changing season. And he knew himself richly rooted there.   
  
Watching Frodo’s eyes, Sam laid his hand again round the firm flesh pledged as his own. Memory merged into the clarion call of what lay before them, and he murmured, "My Frodo… holding you, here… _feeling_ your desire… this is how we began, love, when you first came back to life – to me – and it is what I have always wanted…" Strong calloused fingers traced the line of Frodo’s firm heat, wrapped him in his palm, stroked down, and lightly up, pulling tender skin taut... releasing…   
  
And Frodo smiled and sighed, and his hips lifted, as they must, attuned to that loving touch, thrusting instinctively, convulsively, every chord of his being tremulous with the desire swelling in his body and soul. _Neither blade nor Ring, but this, our love, is what takes me. Willingly, and forever. This is that joy only glimpsed, even beyond the vastness of The Sea… here and now in my arms… our beginning…_  
  
"I love you…"   
  
"Frodo… let me touch you…"   
  
"I am yours, love…"   
  
Sam raised to kneel close beside him, leaning for a kiss as one hand splayed over his tight belly, bringing rhythm to his shuddering movements. His hand slid down past arching flesh, past the soft curls brushing his wrist, over velvety skin… slipping slowly, sensually, downwards… around tender skin tingling with want…   
  
Frodo’s lips parted for Sam’s searching tongue, his thighs for the seeking hand sliding along his trembling inner thigh… up… between… exploring hidden pleasures, finding tight heat… Frodo gasped, writhing with pleasure at that touch, lifting himself for more. His knee rose and fell aside, opening to whatever Sam might desire, whatever unknown joys they might discover, and he moaned, inarticulate, his mind now swept beyond the poetry of words or the lyric of song…   
  
"Sam… oh…"   
  
"What… do you want, love?" A hoarse whisper, yearning only to please.   
  
_"You!"_ Urgent need melded with sweet humour in Frodo’s breathless response, as his eyes flew open wide. His smile was twisted with passion as he met Sam’s, and he glanced down to see himself, quivering as Sam caressed every secret part of him, places he had scarcely dreamed could feel love like this.   
  
"Always… and this?" And in one smooth glide, Sam slid down Frodo’s body, and his lips were on him, surrounding the silken solidity risen from his very core, kissing, taking, loving… One hand wrapped around him, embracing every tremolo of flesh with lips and palm. Gently seeking fingers left a damp trail downwards… swirling cooling moisture to soothe the tight heat between his legs, only beginning to discover every part of his beloved Frodo…   
  
Frodo’s eyes fell closed, his brow creased, and his head dropped back against the pillows. His breath was as ragged as Sam’s as soft wet heat slipped around him, deepening touches filled him… He thrust up, needing those lips and hands upon him, in him… Panting now, he reached to encircle Sam, claiming him once more, his own hands matching the tempo and pulse of Sam’s upon him, drawing even more breath from them both, as hips and hands and husky whisper urged…   
  
"Sam… oh… please…"   
  
His desire in close harmony, Sam gave straining flesh a tender kiss, an exquisite caress that made Frodo gasp. He nudged firm thighs further apart… lifted himself over, between. And for only a pulse, a resting moment, he held perfectly still, poised that he might look beyond any dream ever dared, to see what he held most dear in life, to _see_ his Frodo…   
  
…the darkest blue of his eyes, dilated almost black, now, intense and wide with love and knowledge of what they did in truth, and not in dream… fair skin flushed, head thrown back, black curls strewn across the sea of white, white sheets billowing beyond… the sheen of moisture that glowed upon his brow, on the bared line of his pale throat arching, and slicked his chest, taut belly, loins… and black curls lower still, and quivering firmness Sam could yet taste upon his lips… the shadow of Sam’s body darkening Frodo’s hands laced round them both, enfolding their desire together…in this one moment, before…   
  
_Come to me, my Sam…_  
  
Oh, love! Frodo… always…   
  
Frodo groaned his need, as Sam’s warm weight lowered, settling heat to him… pressing… pausing… fitting them together as one sublime instrument, coupled at last to lyric grace. Sam thrust hard, once, twice, again, each measured pulse stroking deeper, faster… seeking ever more pressure and friction and pleasure with and for his Frodo, writhing lithe beneath him, around him… rising rhythmically to meet him. Hope and love in every ardent sigh, their voices blended in timeless song as desire swelled, soaring concord with the ancient music surging, pounding crescendo through their blood… until…   
  
In ecstasy, Frodo arched in Sam’s arms, his slender body bowing vibrato to love strung sinuous between them, pulling forth and sounding the deepest response of Sam’s very being, resonant to everything he was, and all that he would be.   
  
Frodo’s cry of sheer joy was the clearest call that Sam would ever hear, piercing to his soul. Sam closed his eyes and laid his face to Frodo’s, singing his name in perfect counterpoint, following, as always, his sure lead, enfolding his achingly sweet, beloved body as though never to let go. And Frodo was light in his Sam’s encircling arms.   
  
The harmony of love’s searing consummation reverberated into peace and wordless love; wrapped in its echoes they lay, dark and gold entwined, cherishing each other. And so their song began, in truth, grace notes uplifted, beautiful and pure, interwoven with all that had been sung and ever would be. And with their hearts, it soared out of time, beyond the circles of the world, to where their love and joy promised them safe haven always, and this Now gave fulfilment to their dreams.   
  
  


[ ](http://photobucket.com)


	13. Author's Note

**Title: _Mirror Images_**  
 **Author:** Notabluemaia  
 **Characters:** Frodo/Sam  
 **Rating:** PG-13 in early chapters, to R & NC-17 in last chapters.   
**Word Count:** 28, 500  
 **Summary:** Reflections in Rivendell of mortal danger, heartbreaking beauty, and a death-defying love. The missing three days.  
 **A/N:** Dedicated to [](http://tiriel-35.livejournal.com/profile)[**tiriel_35**](http://tiriel-35.livejournal.com/), dear friend and beta, whose love and understanding of words in general and Tolkien’s in particular, inspire me always. (My first story ~ Written June – November 2003)  
  
  
  


Author's Note

  
  
Mirror Images tells of a unique time in Frodo and Sam’s lives, poised betwixt and between the nightmare of Morgul blade and their hopes for joy beyond the terror now revealed to exist in their world.   
  
The first half of the tale explores the fears that lead to a new awareness of their need for each other, and the difficult decisions that each must make in facing those fears. The second half occurs on that one poignant day, between Frodo’s awakening in Rivendell and the evening before the Council of Elrond, when they believe that the burden of the Ring may be set aside and that they can return to a simple life in their beloved Shire, together, with new understanding…   
  
But we, who love them from beyond the pages of their tale, know that the future they dream is not to be. Mere hours from the expression of their love, on the very morrow, Frodo will make a choice that will take his life, as he takes upon himself an impossible burden, and his Sam will choose to follow him, then as always.   
  
Nowhere in _The Lord of the Rings_ do free people compel another’s actions; compelling the action of others is left to the likes of Sauron, Saruman, and orcs, or to those who have fallen to despair or temptation, as do Denethor and Boromir. No one tells Frodo that he must do this thing, even though there are various among the Wise who have some sense that it is his destiny. Yet, just as earlier in Mirror Images, Frodo must make an informed decision with limited understanding, so, too, does he make one in the Council. As does his Sam.   
  
And it is in these ‘choices’ that their greatness lies: choosing to accept a mission beyond one’s ability, choosing pity over vengeance, devotion over fears, hope and endurance beyond despair… doing what one chooses in the time given…   
  
Among other choices, in “Mirror Images,” Frodo and Sam choose love.   
  
And that is an encouraging thought!  
  



End file.
